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18 4 5. 



POEMS 



FELICIA HEMANS, 



AN ESSAY ON HER GENIUS, 
BY H. T. TUCKERMAN. 



EDITED 

BY RUFUS W. GRISWOLD. 



PHILADELPHIA: 

SORIN AND BALL, MARKET STREET. 
1845. 



TK 






STEREOTYPED BY 
MOGRIDGE & M'CARTY PHILAD'. 

PRINTED BY 
T. K. & p. G, COLLINS. 



ESSAY. 



V/e have heard much of late regarding the rights and sphere of 
woman. The topic has become trite. One branch of the discussion, 
however, is worthy of careful notice — the true theory of cultivated 
and liberal men on the subject. This has been greatly misunder- 
stood. The idea has been often suggested that man is jealous of his 
alleged intellectual superiority, while little has been advanced in 
illustration of his genuine reverence for female character. Because 
the other sex cannot always find erudition so attractive as grace in 
woman, and strong mental traits so captivating as a beautiful dis- 
position, it is absurdly urged that mind and learning are only 
honored in masculine attire. The truth is, that men of feeling in- 
stinctively recognize something higher than intellect. They feel 
that a noble and true soul is greater and more delightful than mere 
reason, however powerful ; and they know that to this, extensive 
knowledge and active logical powers are not essential. It is not 
the attainments, or the literary talent, that they would have women 
abjure. They only pray that through and above these may appear 
the Avoman. They desire that the harmony of nature may not be 
disturbed ; that the essential foundations of love may not be invaded ; 
that the sensibility, delicacy, and quiet enthusiasm of the female 
heart may continue to awaken in man the tender reverence, which 
is the most elevating of his sentiments. 

Portia is highly intellectual ; but even while arrayed in male cos- 
tume and enacting the public advocate, the essential and captivating 
characteristics of her true sex inspire her mien and language. 
Vittoria Colonna was one of the most gifted spirits of her age — the 
favorite companion of Michael Angelo, but her life and works were 
but the eloquent developement of exalted womanhood. Madame 
Roland displayed a strength of character singularly heroic, but her 
brave dignity was perfectly feminine. Isabella of Spain gave evi- 
dence of a mind remarkably comprehensive, and a rare degree of 
judgment ; yet in perusing her history, we are never beguiled from the 
(5) 1* 



feeling of her queenly character. There is an essential quality of sex, 
to be felt rather than described, and it is when this is marred, that a 
feeling of disappointment is the consequence. It is as if we should 
find violets growing on a tall tree. The triumphs of mind always 
command respect, but their stj-le and trophies have diverse com- 
plexions in the two sexes. It is only when these distinctions are lost, 
that they fail to interest. It matters not how erudite or mentally 
gifted a woman may be, so that she remains in manner and feeling a 
woman. Such is the idea that man loves to see realized ; and in 
cherishing it, he gives the highest proof of his estimation of 'woman. 
He delights to witness the exercise of her noblest prerogative. He is 
charmed to behold her in the most effective attitude. He appreciates 
too truly the beauty and power of her nature to wish to see it arrayed 
in any but a becoming dress. There is such a thing as female science, 
philosophy and poetry, as there is female physiognomy and taste ;' 
not that their absolute qualities differ in the two sexes, but their 
relative aspect is distinct. Their sphere is as large and high, and 
infinitely more delicate and deep than that of man, though'^not so 
obvious. When they overstep their appropriate domain, much of 
their mental influence is lost. Freely and purely exerted, it is at , 
once recognized and loved. Man delights to meet woman in the I 
field of letters as well as in the arena of social life. There also is | 
she his better angel. With exquisite satisfaction he learns at her feet 
the^lessons of mental refinement and moral sensibility. From her 
teachings he catches a grace and sentiment unwritten by his own 
sex. Especially in poetry, beams, with starlight beauty, the light of 
her soul. There he reads the records of a woman's heart. He 
hears from her own lips how the charms of nature and the mysteries 
of life have wrought in her bosom. Of such women, Mrs. Hemans 
is the most cherished of our day. 

Life is the prime source of literature, and especially of its most 
effective and universal departments. Poetry should therefore be 
the offspring of deep experience. Otherwise it is superficial and 
temporary. What phase of existence is chiefly revealed to woman 1 
Which domain of experience is she best fitted by her nature and 
position to illustrate ] Undoubtedly, the influence and power of 
the affections. In these her destiny is more completely involved, 
through these her mind more exclusively acts, than is the case 
with our sex. Accordingly, her insight is greater, and her interest 
more extensive in the sphere of the heart. With a quicker 



(vii) 

sympathy, and a finer perception, will she enter into the history 
aiid result of the aflfections. Accordingly, when the mantle of 
son- falls upon a woman, we cannot but look for new revelations 
of sentiment. Not that the charms of nature and the majesty of 
great events may not appropriately attract her muse; but with and 
around these, if she is a true poetess, we see ever entwined the 
delicate flowers that flourish in the atmosphere of home, and are 
reared to full maturity only under the training of woman. Thus 
the poetic in her character finds free development. She can here 
speak with authority. It is, indeed, irreverent to dictate to genius, 
but the themes of female poetry are written in the very structure 
of the soul. Political economy may find devotees among the 
rentier sex; and so an approach to the mental hardihood of Lady 
Macbeth may appear once in the course of an age; whereas every 
year we light on the traces of a Juliet, a Cleopatra and an Isabel. 
The spirit of Mrs. Hemans in all she has written, is essentially 
feminine. Various as are her subjects, they are stamped with the 
same image and superscription. She has drawn her prevailing 
vein of feeling from one source. She has thrown over all her effu- 
sions, not so much the drapery of knowledge, or the light of ex- 
tensive observation, as the warm and shifting hues of the heart. 
These she had at command. She knew their effects, and felt their 
mystery. Hence the lavish confidence with which she devoted 
them to the creations of fancy and the illustration of truth. 

From the voice of her own consciousness, Mrs. Hemans realized 
what a capacity of joy and sorrow, of strength and weakness, 
exists in the human heart. This she made it her study to unfold. 
The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy is, as Byron said 
when it appeared, a very good poem. It is a fine specimen of 
heroic verse. The subject is treated with judgment and abihty, 
and the spirit which pervades the work is precisely what the 
occasion demanded. Still we feel that any cultivated and ideal 
mind might have produced the poem. There are no peculiar 
traits, no strikingly original conceptions. The same may be said 
of several of the long pieces. It is in the Songs of the Aff-ections 
and the Records of woman that the poetess is pre-emmently ex- 
cellent Here the field is emphatically her own. She ranges it 
with a free step and a queenly bearing; and everywhere rich 
flowers spring up in her path, and a glowing atmosphere, like the 
rosy twilight of her ancestral land, enlivens and illumines her pro- 



(viu) 

gress. In these mysterious ties of love, there is to her a world of 
poetry. She not only celebrates their strength and mourns their 
fragility, but with pensive ardor dwells on their eternal destiny. 
The birth, the growth, the decline, the sacrifices, the whole morality 
and spirituality of human love, is recognized and proclaimed by 
her muse. Profoundly does she feel the richness and the sadness, 
the glory and the gloom, involved in the affections. She thinks it 

A fearful thing that love and death may dwell 
In the same world I 

And reverently she declares that 

He that sits above 
In his calm glory, will forgive the love 
His creatures bear each other, even if blent 
With a vain worship; for its close is dim 
Ever with grief, which leads the wrung soul back to Him. 

Devotion continually blends with and exalts her views of human 
sentiment : 

I know, I know our love 
Shall yet call gentle angels from above, 
By its undying fervor. * * * 
Oh I we have need of patient faith below, 
To clear away the mysteries woe ! 

Bereavement has found Mrs. Hemans a worthy recorder of its 
deep and touching poetry: 



But oh! sweet Friend I we dream not of love's might 
Till Death has robed with soft and solemn light 
The image we enshrine ! — Before that hour, 
We have but glimpses of the o'ermastering power 
Within us laid ! — then doth the spirit-flame 
With sword-like lightning rend its mortal frame; 
The wings of that which pants to follow fast, 
Shake their clay-bars, as with prisoned blast, — 
The sea is in our souls j * * * * 

But thou I v/hose thoughts have no blest home above, 
Captive of earth ! and canst thou dare to love ? 
To nurse such feelings as delight to rest 
Within that hallowed shrine a parent's breast '? 
To fix each hope, concentrate every tie. 



(xi ) 

It was the opinion of Ur. Spurzheim, an accurate and benevolent 
observer of life, that suffering was essential to the rich development 
of female character. It is interesting to trace the influence of dis- 
appointment and trial in deepening and exalting the poetry of Mrs. 
Hemans. From the sentimental character of her muse, results ihe ^ 
sameness of which some readers complain in perusing her works. 
This apparent monotony only strikes us when we attempt to read 
them consecutively. But such is not the manner in which we 
should treat a poetess who so exclusively addresses our feelings. 
Like Petrarch's sonnets, her productions delight chiefly when sepa- 
rately enjoyed. Her careful study of poetry as an art, and her truly 
conscientious care in choosing her language and forming her verse, 
could not, even if it were desirable, prevent the formation of a 
certain style. It is obvious, also, that her efforts are unequal. 
The gems, however, are more profusely scattered, than through the 
same"" amount of writing by almost any other modern poet. The 
department of her muse was a high and sacred one. The path she 
pursued was one especially heroic, inasmuch as her efforts imply 
the exertion of great enthusiasm. Such lyrics as we admire in her 
pages are « fresh from the fount of feeling." They have stirred the 
bJod of thousands. They have kindled innumerable hearts on 
both sides of the sea. They have strewn imperishable flowers 
around the homes and graves of two nations. They lift the thoughts, 
like an organ's, peal, to a " better land," and quicken the purest 
sympathies of the soul into a truer life and more poetic beauty. 

The taste of Mrs. Hemans was singularly elegant. She delighted 
in the gorgeous and imposing. There is a remarkable fondness 
for splendid combination, warlike pomp and knightly pageantry 
betrayed in her writings. Her fancy seems bathed in a Southern 
atmosphere. We trace her Italian descent in the very flow and 
imagery of her verse. There is far less of Saxon boldness of design 
and'simplicity of outline, than of the rich coloring and luxuriant 
grouping of a warmer clime. Akin to this trait was her passion for 
Art. She used to say that Music was part of her life. In fact, the 
mind of the poetess was essentially romantic. Her muse was not 
so easily awakened by the sight of a beautiful object, as by the 
records of noble adventure. Her interest was chiefly excited by the 
brave and touching in human experience. Nature attracted her 
rather from its associations with God and humanity, than on account 
of its abstract and absolute qualities. This forms the great dis- 



( -^li ) 

tinction between her poetry and that of Wordsworth. In the midst 
of the fine scenery of Wales, her infant faculties unfolded. There 
began her acquaintance with life and books. We are told of her 
great facility in acquiring languages, her relish of Shakspeare at the 
age of six, and her extraordinary memory. It is not difficult to 
understand how her ardent feelings and rich imagination developed, 
with pecular individuality, under such circumstances. Knightly 
legends, tales of martial enterprize — the poetry of courage and de- 
votion, fascinated her from the first. But when her deeper feelings 
were called into play, and the latent sensibilities of her nature 
sprung to conscious action, much of this native romance v/as 
transferred to the scenes of real life, and the struggles of the heart. 
The earlier and most elaborate of her poems are, in a great 
measure, experimental. It seems as if a casual fancy for the poetic 
art gradually matured into a devoted love. Mrs. Hemans drew her 
power less from preception than sympathy. Enthusiasm, rather 
than graphic talent, is displayed in her verse. We shall look in 
vain for any remarkable pictures of the outward world. Her great 
aim was not so much to describe as to move ; and we discover few 
scenes drawn by her pen, which strike us as wonderfully true to 
physical fact. She does not make us see so much as feel, Com.- 
pared with most great poets, she saw but little of the world, for the 
greater part of her life was passed in retirement. Her knowledge 
of distant lands was derived from books. Hence she makes little 
pretension to the poetry of observation. Sketches copied directly 
from the visible universe are rarely encountered in her works, and 
for such portraiture her mind was not remarkably adapted. There 
was another process far more congenial to her — the personation of 
feeling. She loved to sing of inciting events, to contemplate her 
race in an heroic attitude, to explore the depths of the soul, and 
amid the shadows of despair and the tumult of passion, point out 
some element of love or faith unquenched by the storm. Her 
strength lay in earnestness of soul. Her best verses glow with 
emotion. When once truly interested in a subject, she cast over it 
such an air of feeling that our sympathies are won at once. We 
cannot but catch the same vivid impression ; and if we draw from 
her pages no great number of definite images, we cannot but imbibe 
what is more valuable — the warmth and the life of pure, lofty and 
earnest sentiment. 



LIST OF PLATES. 



FRONTISPIECE PORTRAIT OF MRS. HEMANS. 

VIGNETTE. 

89 
A CATHEDRAL SCENE, 

THE soldier's DEATH-BED, .... 1^5 

. 197 



THE PARTHENON, 
THE SEA, . 



269 



(13) 



CONTENTS. 



the 



Introduction, 

Essay, 

Arabella Stuart, . 

The Widow of Crescentius, 

The Death of Conradin, 

Edith ; a Tale of the Woods, 

Properzia Rossi, . 

The Festal Hour, 

Joan of Arc, in Rheims, 

The American Forest Girl, 

Song of Emigration, 

Thekla at her Lover's Grave, 

Elysium, . 

Sadness and Mirth, , 

Cathedral Hymn, . 

Gertrude ; or, Fidelity till Death^ 

The Bride of the Greek Isle, 

The Palm Tree, . . 

The Traveller at the Source of 

Mozart's Requiem, . 

Ancient Battle Song, 

If thou hast Crush' d a Flower, 

The Bride's Farewell, 

The Homes of England, 

The Hour of Death, 

The Childe's Destiny, • ^ , 

The Landing of the Pilgrmi Fathers, 

Dirge of a Child, . . . 

The Funeral Genius ; an Ancient 

He never Smiled Again, 

The Voice of Spring, 

The Farewell to the Dead, 

Bring Flowers, 

The Treasures of the Deep, 

The Revellers, 

The Songs of our Fathers, 

Kindred Hearts, . 

The Wreck, . 

The Lost Pleiad, . 

The Graves of Martyrs, 

The Hour of Prayer, ^ . 

The Dying Improvisatoire, , 

The Boon of Memory, . 

The Cambrian in America, 

The Soldier's Death-Bed, 



Nile, 



Statue, 



(15) 



( xvi ) 



To my own Portrait, 

Angel Visits, 

The Graves of a Household, 

To a Departed Spirit, 

Ivan the Czar, 

The King of Arragon's Lament for 

The Land of Dreams, 

The Coronation of Inez de Castro 

The Two Homes, 

Woman on the Field of Battle, 

The Deserted House, 

To a Remembered Picture, 

Bernardo del Carpio, 

The Two Voices, 

The Fountain of Oblivion, 

Washington's Statue, 

The Vaudois' Wife, 

The Storm-Painter in his Dungeon 

The Better Land, 

Triumphant Music, 

To the Memory of the Dead, 

The Palmer, 

The Victor, . 

The Last Wish, . 

The Last Song of Sappho, 

The Parthenon, 

Dirge, 

Sister ! since I Met Thee Last, 

The Traveller's Evening Song, 

Leave Me not Yet, 

Hymn of the Vaudois Mountainee 

The Cross of the South, 

The Sisters of Scio, 

The Song of Night, 

Corinna at the Capitol, . 

A Parting Song, 

The Switzer's Wife, 

Tasso and his Sister, 

The Sunbeam, 

The Death-Day of Korner, 

The Adopted Child, 

Roman Girl's Song, 

England's Dead, . 

Itahan Girl's Hymn to the Virgin, 

The Diver, 

The Antique Sepulchre, 

C(Eur De Lion at the Bier of his 

The Suhote Mother, 

The Crusader's Return, 

Casablanca, 

The Hebrew Mother, 

No More, 

The Messenger Bird, 

Woman and Fame, . 

The Image in Lava, 

Passing Away, 

Parting Words, 



his 



Brother, 



times 



of 



Persecution, 



Father, 



( xvii ) 


A Thought of the Future, 260 


The Silent Muhitude, 




2b'^ 


Song of a Guardian Spirit, .... 






264 


The Summer's Call, ..... 






265 


Evening Prayer at a Girl's School, 






267 


The Bird at Sea, ...... 






269 


The Ivy Song, 






270 


Let her Depart, ..... 






272 


A Prayer of Affection, .... 






273 


The Rock beside the Sea, .... 






274 


Prayer of the Lonely Student, .... 






275 


Easter Day in a Mountain Church- Yard, 






278 


Hymn of the Traveller's Household on his Return, . 




s 


283 


The Two Monuments, .... 






285 


Evening Song of the Weary, . 






288 


The Stranger in Louisiana, .... 






289 


The Penitent's Return, .... 






290 


The Water Lily, ..... 






292 


Let us Depart, ..... 






293 


Ye Voices Gone, .... 






295 


Night Hymn at Sea, .... 






296 


The Voice of the Wind, .... 






297 


The Charmed Picture, .... 






299 


The Nightingale's Death Song, 






301 


Despondency and Aspiration, 






303 


Sonnets, Devotional and Memorial, 






309 


L The Sacred Harp, .... 






ib. 


2. To a Family Bible, .... 






lb. 


3. Repose of a Holy Family, 






310 


4. Picture of the Infant Christ with Flowers, 






ib. 


5. On a Remembered Picture of Christ, . 






311 


6. The Children whom Jesus Blest, . 






312 


7. Mountain Sanctuaries, . . . 






ib. 


8. The Lilies of the Field, 






213 


9. The Birds of the Air, 






ib. 


10. The Raising of the Widow's Son, . 






314 


IL The Olive Tree, .... 






ib. 


12. The Darkness of the Crucifixion, . 






315 


13. Places of Worship, 






316 


14. Old Church in an Enghsh Park, . 






ib. 


15. A Church in North Wales, 






317 


16. Louise Schepler, .... 






ib.- 


17. To the Same, .... 






318 


Records of the Spring of 1834, 






319 


1. A Vernal Thought, 






ib. 


2. To the Sky, 






ib. 


3. On Records of Immature Genius, 






320 


4. On Watching the Fhght of a Sky Lark, . 






321 


5. A Thought of the Sea, . 






ib. 


6. Distant Sound of the Sea at Evening, 






322 


7. The River Clwyd in North Wales, 






ib. 


8. Orchard Blossoms, .... 






323 


9. To a Distant Scene, .... 






ib. 


10. A Remembrance of Grasmere, 






324 


11. Thoughts connected with Trees, 






325 


12. The Same, ..... 






ib. 


13. On Reading Paul and Virginia in Childhood, . . 326 j 

2* 1 



( xviii ) 

14. A Thought at Sunset, 

15. Images of Patriarchal Life, 

16. Attraction of the East, 

17. To an aged Friend, 

18. FoHage, 

19. A Prayer, . 

20. Prayer Continued, 

21. Memorial of a Conversation, 
Records of the Autumn of 1834, 

1. The Return to Poetry, . . 

2. To Silvio Pellico, on Reading his " Prigione," 

3. To the Same, Released, . 

4. On a Scene in the Dargle, . 

5. On Reading Coleridge's Epitaph, 

6. On the Datura Arborea, 

7. Design and Performance, . 

8. Hope of Future Communion with Nature, 

9. Dreams of the Dead, 
10. Poetry of the Psalms, 

Thoughts During Sickness, . 

1. Intellectual Povv^ers, . 

2. Sickness hke Night, 

3. On Retzsch's Design of the Angel of Death, 

4. Remembrance of Nature, 

5. Flight of the Spirit, . 

6. Flowers, 

7. Recovery, 
Sabbath Sonnet, . 
A Poet's Dying Hymn, 



326 
327 

ib. 
328 
329 

ib. 
330 
331 
332 

ib. 

ib. 
333 
334 

lb. 
335 
336 

ib. 
337 

ib. 
339 

ib. 

ib. 
340 

ib. 
341 
342 

ib. 
343 
344 



POEMS. 



ARABELLA STUART. 

I. 

'Twis but a dream!— I saw the stag leap free, 

Under the boughs where early birds were singing, 
I stood, o'ershadow'd by the greenwood tree, 

And heard, it seem'd, a sudden bugle ringing 
Far through a royal forest ; then the fawn 
Shot, like a gleam of light, from grassy lawn 
To secret covert; and the smooth turf shook. 
And lilies quiver'd by the glade's lone brook, . 
And young leaves trembled, as, in fleet career, 
A princely band, with horn, and hound, and spear, 
Like a ri^h masque swept forth. I saw the dance 
Of their white plumes, that bore a silvery glance 
Into the deep wood's heart ; and all pass'd by, 
Save one — I met the smile of one clear eye, 
Flashing out joy to mine. -Yes, thou wert there, 
Seymour ! a soft wind blew the clustermg hair 
Back from thy gallant brow, as thou didst rein 
Thy courser, turning from that gorgeous train, 

(21) 



(22) 

And fling, methought, thy hunting-spear away ! 

And, lightly graceful in thy green array, 

Bound to my side ; and we, that met and parted, 

Ever in dread of some dark watchful power, 
Won back to childhood's trust, and, fearless -hearted, 

Blent the glad fulness of our thoughts that hour. 
E'en like the mingling of sweet streams, beneath 
Dim woven leaves, and 'midst the floating breath 
Of hidden forest flowers. 

II. 

'Tis past ! — I wake, 

A captive, and alone, and far from thee. 
My love and friend ! Yet fostering, for thy sake, 

A quenchless hope of happiness to be ; 
And feeling still my woman's spirit strong 
In the deep faith which lifts from earthly wrong, 
A heavenward glance. I know, I know our love 
Shall yet call gentle angels from above, 
By its undying fervor ; and prevail, 
Sending a breath, as of the spring's first gale. 
Through hearts now cold ; and, raising its bright face, 
With a free gush of sunny tears erase 
The characters of anguish ; in this trust, 
I bear, I strive, I bow not to the dust. 
That I may bring thee back no faded form, 
No bosom chill' d and blighted by the storm, 
But all my youth's first treasures, when we meet. 
Making past sorrow, by communion, sweet. 

III. 

And thou too art in bonds ? — yet droop thou not, 
Oh, my beloved ! — there is one hopeless lot, 



(23) 

But one, and that not ours. Beside the dead 
There sits the grief that mantles up its head, 
Loathing the laughter and proud pomp of light. 
When darkness, from the vainly-doting sight, 
Covers its beautiful ! If thou wert gone 

To the grave's bosom, with thy radiant brow, — 
If thy deep-thrilling voice, with that low tone 

Of earnest tenderness, which now, ev'n nov/, 
Seems floating through my soul, were music taken, 
Forever from this world, — oh ! thus forsaken, 
Could I bear on? — thou liv'st, thou liv'st, thou'rt mine! 
With this glad thought I make my heart a shrine. 
And by the lamp which quenchless there shall burn, 
Sit, a lone watcher for the day's return. 

IV. 

And lo ! the joy that cometh with the morning. 

Brightly victorious o'er the hours of care ! 
I have not watch' d in vain, serenely scorning 

The wild and busy whispers of despair ! 
Thou hast sent tidings, as of heaven. — I wait 

The hour, the sign, for blessed flight to thee. 
Oh ! for the skylark's wing that seeks its mate 

As a star shoots ! — but on the breezy sea 
We shall meet soon. — To think of such an hour ! 

Will not my heart, o'erburden'd by its bliss. 
Faint and give way within me, as a flower 

Borne down and perishing by noontide's kiss ? 
Yet shall I fear that lot ? — the perfect rest, 
The full deep joy of dying on thy breast. 
After long-suffering won ? So rich a close 
Too seldom crowns with peace affection's woes. 



(24) 

V. 

Sunset ! — I tell each moment — from the skies 
The last red splendor floats along my wall, 

Like a king's banner ! — Now it melts, it dies ! 
I see one star — I hear ! — 'twas not the call, 

Th' expected voice ; my quick heart throbb'd too soon. 

I must keep vigil till yon rising moon 

Shower down less golden light. Beneath her beam 

Through my lone lattice pour'd, I sit and dream 

Of summer lands afar, where holy love. 

Under the vine, or in the citron-grove. 

May breathe from terror. 

Now the night grows deep, 

And silent as its clouds, and full of sleep. 

I hear my veins beat. — Hark ! a bell's slow chime ! 

My heart strikes with it. — Yet again — 'tis time ! 

A step ! — a voice ! — or but a rising breeze ? 

Hark ! — haste ! — I come, to meet thee on the seas. 

VI. 

Now never more, oh ! never, in the worth 
Of its pure cause, let sorrowing love on earth 
Trust fondly — never more! — the hope is crush' d 
That lit my life, the voice within me hush'd 
That spoke sw^eet oracles ; and I return 
To lay my youth, as in a burial-urn. 
Where sunshine may not find it, — All is lost! 
No tempest met our barks — no billow toss'd ; 
Yet were they sever' d, ev'en as we must be. 
That so have loved, so striven our hearts to free 
From their close-coiling fate ! In vain ! — in vain ! 
The dark links meet, and clasp themselves again, 



(25) 

And press out life. — Upon the deck I stood, 
And a white sail came gliding o'er the flood, 
Like some proud bird of ocean ; then mine eye 
Strain' d out, one moment earlier to descry 
The form it ached for, and the bark's career 
Seem'd slow to that fond yearning. It drew near, 
Fraught with our foes! — What boots it to recall 
The strife, the tears 1 Once more a prison-wall 
Shuts the green hills and woodlands from my sight. 
And joyous glance of waters to the light, 
And thee, my Seymour, thee ! 

I will not sink! 
Thou, thou hast rent the heavy chain that bound thee ; 
And this shall be my strength — the joy to think 

That thou may'st wander with heaven's breath around 
thee ; 
And all the laughing sky ! This thought shall yet 
Shine o'er my heart, a radiant amulet. 
Guarding it from despair. Thy bonds are broken. 
And unto me, I know, thy true love's token 
Shall one day be deliverance, though the years 
Lie dim between, o'erhung with mists of tears. 

VIL 

My friend, my friend ! where art thou ? Day by day, 
Gliding, like some dark mournful stream, away. 
My silent youth flows from me. Spring, the while. 

Comes and rains beauty on the kindling boughs 
Round hall and hamlet; Summer, with her smile, 

Fills the green forest ; young hearts breathe their vows ; 
Brothers, long parted, meet; fair children rise 
Round the glad board : Hope laughs from loving eyes : 



(26) 

All this is in the world ! — These joys lie sown, 
The dew of every path — On one alone 
Their freshness may not fall — the stricken deer. 
Dying of thirst with all the waters near. 

VIII. 
Ye are from dingle and fresh glade, ye flowers ! 

By some kind hand ^o cheer my dungeon sent ; 
O'er you the oak shed down the summer showers, 

And the lark's nest was where your bright cups bent, 
Quivering to breeze and rain drop, like the sheen 
Of twilight stars. On you Heaven's eye hath been. 
Through the leaves, pouring its dark sultry blue 
Into your glowing hearts ; the bee to you 
Hath murmur'd, and the rill. — My soul grows faint 
With passionate yearning, as its quick dreams paint 
Your haunts by dell and stream, — the green, the free. 
The full of all sweet sound, — the shut from me! 

IX. 

There went a swift bird singing past my cell — 

O Love and Freedom ! ye are lovely things ! 

With you the peasant on the hills may dwell. 

And by the streams ; but I — the blood of kings, 
A proud, unmingling river, through my veins 
Flows in lone brightness, — and its gifts are chains ! 
Kings ! — I had silent visions of deep bliss. 
Leaving their thrones far distant, and for this 
I am cast under their triumphal car. 
An insect to be crush'd. — Oh! Heaven is fair. 
Earth pitiless ! 

Dost thou forget me, Seymour ? I am proved 
So long, so sternly ! Seymour, my beloved ! 



(27) 

There are such tales of holy marvels done 

By strong affection, of deliverance won 

Through its prevailing power ! Are these things told 

Till the young weep with rapture, and the old 

Wonder, yet dare not doubt, — and thou, oh! thou. 

Dost thou forget me in my hope's decay 1 — 
Thou canst not!— through the silent night, ev'n now, 

I, that need prayer so much, awake and pray 
Still first for thee. — Oh! gentle, gentle friend! 
How shall I bear this anguish to the end ? 

Aid! — comes there yet no aid? — the voice of blood 

Passes Heaven's gate, ev'n ere the crimson flood 

Sinks through the greensward ! — is there not a cry 

From the wrung heart, of power, through agony. 

To pierce the clouds] Hear, Mercy! hear me! None 

That bleed and weep beneath the smiling sun 

Have heavier cause! — yet hear! — my soul grows dark; 

Who hears the last shriek from the sinking bark. 

On the mid seas, end with the storm alone. 

And bearing to th' abyss, unseen, unknown. 

Its freight of human hearts? — th' o'ermastering wave! 

Who shall tell how it rush'd— and none to save? 

Thou hast forsaken me ! I feel, I know. 
There would be rescue if this were not so. 
Thou'rt at the chase, thou'rt at the festive board, ^ 
Thou'rt where the red wine free and high is pour'd, 
Thou'rt where the dancers meet! — a magic glass 
Is set within my soul, and proud shapes pass. 
Flushing it o'er with pomp from bower and hall; — 
I see one shadow, stateliest there of all.— 



(28) 

Thine I — What dost thou amidst the bright and fair. 

Whispering light words, and mocking my despair? 

It is not well of thee ! — my love was more 

Than fiery song may breathe, deep thought explore, 

And there thou smilest, while my heart is dying, 

With all its blighted hopes around it lying ; 

Ev'n thou, on whom they hung their last green leaf — 

Yet smile, smile on! too bright art thou for grief! 

Death! — what, is death a lock'd and treasured thino-. 

Guarded by swords of fire? a hidden spring, 

A fabled fruit, that I should thus endure. 

As if the world within me held no cure? 

Wherefore not spread free wings — Heaven, Heaven ! 

control 
These thoughts — they rush — I look into my soul 
As down a gulf, and tremble at th' array 
Of fierce forms crowding it ! Give strength to pray. 
So shall their dark host pass. 

The storm is still'd. 
Father in Heaven ! Thou, only thou, canst sound, 
The heart's great deep, with floods of anguish fill'd, 
For human line too fearfully profound. 
Therefore, forgive, my Father ! if Thy child, 
Rock'd on its heaving darkness, hath grown wild. 
And sinn'd in her despair ! It well may be. 
That Thou wouldst lead my spirit back to Thee, 
By the crush'd hope too long on this world pour'd. 
The stricken love which hath perchance adored 
A mortal in Thy place ! Now let me strive 
With thy strong arm no more ! Forgive, forgive ! 
Take me to peace ! 



(29) 

And peace at last is nigh. 

A sign is on my brow, a token sent 
Th' o'erwearied dust, from home : no breeze flits by. 

But calls me with a strange sweet whisper, blent 
Of many mysteries. 

Hark ! the warning tone 
Deepens — its word is Death. Alone, alone, 
And sad in youth, but chasten' d, I depart, 
Bowing to heaven. Yet, yet my woman's heart 
Shall wake a spirit and a power to bless, 
Ev'n in this hour's o'ershadowing fearfulnes, 
Thee, its first love ! — oh ! tender still, and true ! 
Be it forgotten if mine anguish threw 
Drops from its bitter fountain on thy name. 
Though but a moment. 

Now, with fainting frame, 
With soul just lingering on the flight begun, 
To bind for thee its last dim thoughts in one, 
I bless thee ! Peace be on thy noble head 
Years of bright fame, when I am with the dead ! 
I bid this prayer survive me, and retain 
Its might, again to bless thee, and again ! 
Thou hast been gather'd into my dark fate 
Too much ; too long, for my sake, desolate 
Hath been thine exiled youth ; but now take back. 
From dying hands thy freedom, and retrack 
(After a few kind tears for her whose days 
Went out in dreams of thee) the sunny ways 
Of hope, and find thou happiness ! Yet send, 
Ev'n then, in silent hours, a thought, dear friend ! 



(30) 

Down to my voiceless chamber ; for thy love 

Hath been to me all gifts of earth above, 

Though bought with burning tears ! It is the sting 

Of death to leave that vainly-precious thing 

In this cold world ! What were it then, if thou, 

With thy fond eyes, wert gazing on me now ? 

Too keen a pang ! — Farewell ! and yet once more 

Farewell ! — the passion of long years I pour 

Into that word : thou hear'st not, — but the woe 

And fervor of its tones may one day flow 

To thy heart's holy place ; there let them dwell — 

We shall o'ersweep the grave to meet — Farewell ! 



THE WIDOW OF CRESCENTIUS.* 

PART I. 
'Midst Tivoli's luxuriant glades. 
Bright-foaming falls, and olive shades. 
Where dwelt, in days departed long, 
The sons of battle and of song, 



* '' In the reign of Otho III. Emperor of Germany, the Romans, ex- 
cited by their Consul, Crescentius, who ardently desired to restore the an- 
cient glory of the republic, made a bold attempt to shake off the Saxon 
yoke, and the authority of the Popes, whose vices rendered them objects 
of universal contempt. The Consul was besieged by Otho in the Mole 
of Hadrian, which, long afterwards, continued to be called the Tower of 
Crescentius. Otho, after many unavailing attacks upon the fortress, at 
last entered into negotiations ; and pledging his imperial word to respect 
the life of Crescentius, and the rights of the Roman citizens, the unfor- 
tunate leader was betrayed into his power, and immediately beheaded, 
with many of his partisans. Stephania, his widow, concealing her afflic- 
tion and resentment for the insults to which she had been exposed, secretly 
resolved to revenge her husband and herself. On the return of Otho 
from a pilgrimage to Mount Gargana, which perhaps, a feehng of remorse 
had induced him to undertake, she found means to be introduced to him, 
and to gain his confidence ; and a poison administered by her was soon 
afterwards the cause of his painful death."— See Sismondi, History of the 
Italian Republics, vol. i. 



(31) 

No tree, no shrub its foliage rears, 
But o'er the wrecks of other years. 
Temples and domes, which long have been 
The soil of that enchanted scene. 

There the wild fig tree and the vine 
O'er Hadrian's mouldering villa twine ; 
The cypress, in funereal grace, 
Usurps the vanish'd column's place ; 
O'er fallen shrine, and ruin'd frieze, 
The wall-flower rustles in the breeze; 
Acanthus-leaves the marble hide. 
They once adorn' d in sculptured pride ; 
And nature hath resumed her throne 
O'er the vast works of ages flown. 

Was it for this that many a pile, 
Pride of Illissus and of Nile, 
To Anio's banks the image lent 
Of each imperial monument ? 
Now Athens weeps her scatter'd fanes, 
Thy temples, Egypt, strew thy plains ; 
And the proud fabrics Hadrian rear'd 
From Tiber's vale have disappear'd. 
We need no prescient sibyl there. 
The doom of grandeur to declare. 
Each stone, where weeds and ivy climb. 
Reveals some oracle of Time : 
Each relic utters Fate's decree, 
The future as the past shall be. 

Halls of the dead ! in Tiber's vale, 
Who now shall tell your lofty tale? 



(32) 

Who trace the high patrician's dome, 
The bard's retreat, the hero's home? 
When moss-clad wrecks alone record, 
There dwelt the world's departed lord ! 
In scenes where verdure's rich array 
Still sheds youug beauty o'er decay, 
And sunshine, on each glowing hill, 
'Midst ruins finds a dwelling still. 

Sunk is thy palace, but thy tomb, 
Hadrian ! hath shared a prouder doom. 
Though vanish' d with the days of old 
Its pillars of Corinthian mould ; 
And the fair forms by sculpture wrought, 
Each bodying some immortal thought. 
Which o'er that temple of the dead. 
Serene, but solemn beauty shed, 
Have found, like glory's self, a grave 
In Time's abyss or Tiber's wave : 
Yet dreams more lofly, and more fair. 
Than art's bold hand hath imaged e'er. 
High thoughts of many a mighty mind, 
Expanding when all else declined. 
In twilight years, when only they 
Recall'd the radiance pass'd away, 
Have made that ancient pile their home. 
Fortress of freedom and of Rome, 

There he, who strove in evil days, 
Again to kindle glory's rays. 
Whose spirit sought a path light. 
For those dim ages far too bright. 



(33) 

Crescentius long maintain' d the strife, 

Which closed but with its martyr's life, 

And lefl the imperial tomb a name, 

A heritage of holier fame. 

There closed De Brescia's mission high. 

From thence the patriot came to die ; 

And thou, whose Roman soul the last. 

Spoke with the voice of ages past. 

Whose thoughts so long from earth hath fled. 

To mingle with the glorious dead. 

That 'midst the world's degenerate race, 

They vainly sought a dwelling-place. 

Within that house of death didst brood 

O'er visions to thy ruin woo'd. 

Yet worthy of a brighter lot, 

Rienzi ! be thy faults forgot ! 

For thou, when all around thee lay 

Chain' d in the slumbers of decay ; 

So sunk each heart, that mortal eye 

Had scarce a tear less for liberty ; 

Alone, amidst the darkness there, 

Couldst gaze on Rome — yet not despair! 

'Tis morn, and Nature's richest dyes 
Are floating o'er Italian skies f 
Tints of transparent lustre shine 
Along the snow-clad Apennine ; 
The clouds have left Soracte's height, 
And yellow Tiber winds in light. 
Where tombs and fallen fanes have strew'd 
The wild Campagna's solitude. 
'Tis sad amidst that scene to trace 
Those relics of a vanish' d race ; 



^=:^ 



(34) 

Yet o'er the ravaged path of time, 
Such glory sheds that brilliant clime, 
Where nature still, though empires fall, 
Holds her triumphant festival ; 
E'en desolation wears a smile. 
Where skies and sunbeams laugh the while ; 
And Heaven's own light, Earth's richest bloom, 
Array the ruin and the tomb. 

But she, who from yon convent tower 
Breathes the pure freshness of the hour ; 
She, whose rich flow of raven hair 
Streams wildly on the morning air ; 
Heeds not how fair the scene below. 
Robed in Italia's brightest glow, 
Though throned 'midst Latium's classic plains 
Th' Eternal City's towers and fanes, 
And they, the Pleiades of the earth, 
The seven proud hills of Empire's birth, 
Lie spread beneath : not now her glance 

Roves o'er that vast, sublime expanse ; 
Inspired, and bright with hope, 'tis thrown 

On Hadrian's massy tomb alone ; 

There, from the storm when Freedom fled, 

His faithful few Crescentius led ! 

While she, his anxious bride, who now 

Bends o'er the scene her youthful brow. 

Sought refuge in the hallow'd fane. 

Which then could shelter, not in vain. 

But now the lofty strife is o'er. 

And Liberty shall weep no more. 

At length imperial Otho's voice 

Bids her devoted sons rejoice ; 



(35) 

And he, who battled to restore 
The glories and the rights of yore. 
Whose accents, like the clarion's sound, 
Could burst the dead repose around. 
Again his native Rome shall see, 
The sceptred city of the free ! 
And young Stephania waits the hour 
When leaves her lord his fortress-tower, 
Her ardent heart with joy elate. 
That seems beyond the reach of fate ; 
Her mien, like creature from above. 
All vivified with hope and love. 

Fair is her form, and in her eye 
Lives all the soul of Italy ! 
A meaning lofty and inspired, 
As by her native day-star fired : 
Such wild and high expression, fraught 
With glances of impassion' d thought, 
As fancy sheds its vision bright 
O'er priestess of the God of Light ! 
And the dark locks that lend her face 
A youthful and luxuriant grace. 
Wave o'er her cheek, whose kindling dyes 
Seem from the fire within to rise ; 
But deepen' d by the burning heaven 
To her own land of sunbeams given. 
Italian art that fervid glow 
Would o'er ideal beauty throw. 
And with such ardent life express 
Her high-wrought dreams of loveliness ; — 
Dreams which, surviving Empire's fall, 
The shade of glory still recall. 



(36) 

But see, — the banner of the brave 
O'er Hadrian's tomb hath ceas'd to wave. 
'Tis lower'd — and now Stephania's eye 
Can well the martial train descry, 
Who, issuing from that ancient dome, 
Pour through the crowded streets of Rome. 
Now from her watch-tower on the height. 
With step as fabled wood-nymph's light. 
She flies — and swift her way pursues 
Through the lone convent's avenues. 
Dark cypress-groves, and fields o'erspread 
With records of the conquering dead. 
And paths which track a glowing waste^ 
She traverses in breathless haste : 
And by the tombs where dust is shrined. 
Once tenanted by loftiest mind, 
Still passing on, hath reach' d the gate 
Of Rome, the proud, the desolate ! 
Throng'd are the streets, and, still renew'd, 
Rush on the gathering multitude. 

Is it their high-soul' d chief to greet, 
That thus the Roman thousands meet? 
With names that bid their thoughts ascend, 
Crescentius, thine in song to blend ; 
And of triumphal days gone by 
Recall th' inspiring pageantry ? 
— There is an air of breathless dread, 
An eager glance, a hurrying tread ; 
And now a fearful silence round. 
And now a fitful murmuring sound, 
'Midst the pale crowds, that almost seem 
Phantoms of some tumultuous dream, 



(37) 

Quick is each step, and wild each mien, 
Portentous of some awful scene. 
Bride of Crescentius ! as the throng 
Bore thee with whelming force along, 
How did thine anxious heart beat high, 
Till rose suspense to agony ! 
Too brief suspense, that soon shall close. 
And leave thy heart to deeper woes. 

Who 'midst yon guarded precinct stands, 
With fearless mien, but fetter' d hands ? 
The ministers of death are nigh. 
Yet a calm grandeur lights his eye ; 
And in his glance there lives a mind. 
Which was not form'd for chains to bind, 
But cast in such heroic mould 
As theirs, th' ascendant ones of old. 
Crescentius ! freedom's daring son. 
Is this the guerdon thou hast won ? 
Oh, worthy to have lived and died 
In the bright days of Latium's pride ! 
Thus must the beam of glory close. 
O'er the seven hills again that rose, 
When at thy voice to burst the yoke. 
The soul of Rome indignant woke ? 
Vain dream ! the sacred shields are gone. 
Sunk is the crowning city's throne : 
Th' illusions that around her cast 
Their guardian spells have long been past. 
Thy life hath been a shot star's ray. 
Shed o'er her midnight of decay ; 
Thy death at Freedom's ruin'd shrine 
Must rivet every chain — but thine. 



(33) 

Calm is his aspect, and his eye 
Now fix'd upon the deep blue sky, 
Now on those wrecks of ages fled. 
Around in desolation spread ; 
Arch, temple, column, worn and grey. 
Recording triumphs pass'd away ; 
Works of the mighty and the free. 
Whose steps on earth no more shall be. 
Though their bright course hath left a trace 
Nor years nor sorrows can efface. 

Why changes now the patriot's mien 
Erewhile so loftily serene ? 
Thus can approaching death control 
The might of that commanding soul ? 
No ! — Heard ye not that thrilling cry 
Which told of bitterest agony ? 
He heard it, and, at once subdued, 
Hath sunk the hero's fortitude. 
He heard it, and his heart too well 
Whence rose that voice of woe can tell ; 
And 'midst the gazing throngs around 
One well-known form his glance hath found ; 
One fondly loving and beloved. 
In grief, in peril, faithful proved. 
Yes, in the wildness of despair, 
She, his devoted bride, is there. 
Pale, breathless, through the crowd she flies. 
The light of frenzy in her eyes : 
But ere her arms can clasp the form 
Which life ere long must cease to warm ; 
Ere on his agonizing breast 
Her heart can heave, her head can rest ; 



(39) 

Check' d in her course by ruthless hands, 
Mute, motionless, at once she stands ; 
With bloodless cheek and vacant glance. 
Frozen and fix'd in horror's trance ; 
Spell-bound, as every sense were fled, 
And thought o'erwhelm'd, and feeling dead. 
And the light waving of her hair. 
And veil, far floating on the air. 
Alone, in that dread moment, show, 
She is no sculptured form of woe. 

The scene of grief and death is o'er, 
The patriot's heart shall throb no more ; 
But hers — so vainly form'd to prove 
-The pure devotedness of love, 
And draw from fond affection's eye 
All thought sublime, all feeling high ; 
When consciousness again shall wake, 
Hath now no refuge — but to break. 
The spirit long inured to pain 
May smile at fate in calm disdain ; 
Survive its darkest hour, and rise 
In more majestic energies. 
But in the glow of vernal pride. 
If each warm hope at once hath died, 
Then sinks the mind, a blighted flower. 
Dead to the sunbeam and the shower ; 
A broken gem, whose inborn light 
Is scatter'd — ne'er to reunite. 



(40) 

PART II. 

Hast thou a scene that is not spread 
With records of thy glory fled? 
A monument that doth not tell 
The tale of liberty's farewell ? 
Italia ! thou art but a grave 
Where flowers luxuriate o'er the brave, 
And Nature gives her treasures birth 
O'er all that hath been great on earth. 
Yet smile thy heavens as once they smiled, 
When thou wert Freedom's favor'd child : 
Though fane and tomb alike are low, 
Time hath not dimm'd thy sunbeam's glow; 
And robed in that exulting ray, 
Thou seem'st to triumph o'er decay ; 
O yet, though by thy sorrows bent. 
In nature's pomp magnificent ! 
What marvel if, when all was lost. 
Still on thy bright enchanted coast. 
Though many an omen warn'd him thence. 
Linger' d the lord of eloquence ! 
Still gazing on the lovely sky. 
Whose radiance woo'd him — but to die : 
Like him, who would not linger there. 
Where heaven, earth, ocean, all are fair? 
Who 'midst thy glowing scenes could dwell. 
Nor bid awhile his griefs farewell ? 
Hath not thy pure and genial air 
Balm for all sadness but despair ? 
No ! there are pangs, whose deep-worn trace 
Not all thy magic can efface ! 



(41) 

Hearts, by unkindness wrung, may learn 
The world and all its gitls to spurn ; 
Time may steal on with silent tread, 
And dry the tear that mourns the dead ; 
May change fond love, subdue regret, 
And teach e'en vengeance to forget : 
But thou, Remorse ! there is no charm 
Thy sting, avenger, to disarm ! 
Vain are bright suns, and laughing skies. 
To soothe thy victim's agonies : 
The heart once made thy burning throne. 
Still, while it beats, is thine alone. 

In vain for Otho's joyless eye 
Smile the fair scenes of Italy, 
As through her landscapes' rich array, 
Th' imperial pilgrim bends his way. 
Thy form, Crescentius, on his sight 
Rises when nature laughs in light. 
Glides round him at the midnight hour. 
Is present in his festal bower. 
With awful voice and frowning mien. 
By all but him unheard, unseen. 
Oh ! thus to shadows of the grave 
Be every tyrant still a slave ! 

Where through Gorgano's woody dells. 
O'er bending oaks the north wind swells, 
A sainted hermit's lowly tomb 
Is bosom' d in unbrageous gloom. 
In shades that saw him live and die 
Beneath their waving canopy. 



(42) 

'Twas his, as legends tell, to share 
The converse of immortals there ; 
Around that dweller of the wild 
There " bright appearances" have smiled, 
And angel-wings, at eve, have been 
Gleaming the shadowy boughs between. 
And oflen from that secluded bower 
Hath breathed, at midnight's calmer hour, 
A swell of viewless harps, a sound 
Of warbled anthems pealing round. 
Oh, none but voices of the sky 
Might wake that thrilling harmony 
Whose tones, whose very echoes, made 
An Eden of the lonely shade ! 

Years have gone by ; the hermit sleeps 
Amidst Gargano's woods and steeps ! 
Ivy and flowers have half o'ergrown 
And veil'd his low, sepulchral stone : 
Yet still the spot is holy, still 
Celestial footsteps haunt the hill ; 
And oft the awe-struck mountaineer 
Aerial vesper hymns may hear 
Around those forest-precincts float, 
Soft, solemn, clear, — but still remote. 
Oft will Affliction breathe her plaint 
To that rude shrine's departed saint. 
And deem that spirits of the blest 
There shed sweet mfluence o'er her breast. 

And thither Otho now repairs, 
To soothe his soul with vows and prayers ; 



(43) 

And if for him, on holy ground, 
The lost one, Peace, may yet be found, 
'Midst rocks and forests, by the bed 
Where cahnly sleep the sainted dead, 
She dwells, remote from heedless eye, 
With Nature's lonely majesty. 

Vain, vain the search — his troubled breast 
Nor vow nor penance lulls to rest ; 
The weary pilgrimage is o'er. 
The hopes that cheer' d it are no more. 
Then sinks his soul, and day by day, 
Youth's buoyant energies decay. 
The light of health his eye hath flown, 
. The glow that tinged his cheek is gone. 
Joyless as one on whom is laid 
Some baleful spell that bids him fade, 
Extending its mysterious power 
O'er every scene, o'er every hour ; 
E'en thus he withers ; and to him, 
Italia' s brilliant skies are dim. 
He withers — in that glorious clime 
Where Nature laughs in scorn of Time ; 
And suns, that shed on all below 
Their full and vivifying glow, 
From him alone their power withhold, 
And leave his heart in darkness cold. 
Earth blooms around him, heaven is fair, 
He only seems to perish there. 

Yet sometimes will a transient smile 
Play o'er his faded cheek awhile. 



(44) 

When breathes his minstrel-boy a strain 

Of power to lull all earthly pain ; 

So wildly sweet, its notes might seem 

Th' ethereal music of a dream, 

A spirit's voice from w^orlds unknown, 

Deep thrilling power in every tone ! 

Sweet is that lay, and yet its flow 

Hath language only given to woe ; 

And if at times its wakening swell 

Some tale of glory seems to tell. 

Soon the proud notes of triumph die, 

Lost in a dirge's harmony. 

Oh ! many a pang the heart hath proved, 

Hath deeply suffer'd, fondly loved. 

Ere the sad strain could catch from thence 

Such deep impassion' d eloquence ! 

Yes ! gaze on him, that minstrel-boy — 

He is no child of hope and joy ; 

Though few his years, yet have they been 

Such as leave traces on the mien, 

And o'er the roses of our prime 

Breathe other blights than those of time. 

Yet, seems his spirit wild and proud. 
By grief unsoflen'd and unbow'd. 
Oh ! there are sorrows which impart 
A sternness foreign to the heart. 
And rushing with an earthquake's power. 
That makes a desert in an hour ; 
Rouse the dread passions in their course, 
As tempests wake the billows' force ! — 
'Tis sad on youthful Guido's face. 
The stamp of woes like these to trace. 



(45) 

Oh ! where can ruins awe mankind 
Dark as the ruins of the mind? 

His mien is lofty, but his gaze 
Too well a wandering soul betrays : 
His full, dark eye at times is bright 
With strange and momentary light, 
Whose quick uncertain flashes throw 
O'er his pale cheek a hectic glow ; 
And ofl his features and his air 
A shade of troubled mystery wear, 
A glance of hurried wildness, fraught 
With some unfathomable thought. 
Whate'er that thought, still unexpress'd. 
Dwells the sad secret in his breast ; 
The pride his haughty brow reveals. 
All other passion well conceals. 
He breathes each wounded feeling's tone 
In music's eloquence alone ; 
His soul's deep voice is only pour'd 
Through his full song and swelling chord. 
He seeks no friend, but shuns the train 
Of courtiers with a proud disdain ; 
And, save when Otho bids his lay 
Its half unearthly power essay, 
In hall or bower the heart to thrill, 
His haunts are wild and lonely still. 
Far distant from the heedless throng, 
He roves old Tiber's banks along. 
Where Empire's desolate remains 
Lie scatter' d o'er the silent plains ; 
Or, lingering 'midst each ruin'd shrine 
That strews the desert Palatine, 



(46) 

With mournful, yet commanding mien, 
Like the sad Genius of the scene. 
Entranced in awful thought appears 
To commune with departed years. 
Or at the dead of night, when Rome 
Seems of heroic shades the home ; 
When Tiber's murmuring voice recalls, 
The mighty to their ancient halls ; 
When hush'd is every meaner sound, 
And the deep moonlight-calm around 
Leaves to the solemn scene alone 
The majesty of ages flown ; 
A pilgrim to each hero's tomb, 
He wanders through the sacred gloom ; 
And, 'midst those dwellings of decay, 
At times will breathe so sad a lay, 
So wild a grandeur in each tone, 
'Tis like a dirge for empires gone ! 

Awake thy pealing harp again, 
But breathe a more exulting strain. 
Young Guide ! for a w^hile forgot 
Be the dark secrets of thy lot, 
And rouse th' inspiring soul of song 
To speed the banquet's hour along ! 
The feast is spread ; and music's call 
Is echoing through the royal hall, 
And banners wave and trophies shine, 
O'er stately guests in glittering line ; 
And Otho seeks awhile to chase 
The thoughts he never can erase, 
And bid the voice, whose murmurs deep 
Rise like a spirit on his sleep. 



(47) 

The still small voice of conscience die, 
Lost in the din of revelry. 
On his pale brow dejection lowers, 
But that shall yield to festal hours ; 
A gloom is in his faded eye, 
But that from music's power shall fly : 
His wasted cheek is wan with care, 
But mirth shall spread fresh crimson there. 
Wake, Guido ! wake thy numbers high. 
Strike the bold chord exultingly ! 
And pour upon th' enraptured ear 
Such strains as w^arriors love to hear ! 
Let the rich mantling goblet flow. 
And banish all resembling w^oe ; 
And, if a thought intrude, of power 
To mar the bright convivial hour. 
Still must its influence lurk unseen. 
And cloud the heart — but not the mien ! 
Away, vain dream! — on Otho's brow 
Still darker lower the shadows now ; 
Changed are his features, now o'erspread 
With the cold paleness of the dead ; 
Now crimson' d with a hectic dye. 
The burning flush of agony ! 
His lip is quivering, and his breast 
Heaves, w4th convulsive pangs oppress' d ; 
Now his dim eye seems fix'd and glazed. 
And now to heaven in anguish raised ; 
And as, with unavailing aid. 
Around him throng his guests dismay'd, 
He sinks — while scarce his struggling breath 
Hath power to falter — *' This is death!" 



(48) 

Then rush'd that haughty child of song, 
Dark Guido, through the awe-struck throng ; 
Fill'd with a strange delirious light, 
His kindling eye shone wildly bright, 
And on the sufferer's mien awhile 
Gazing with stern vindictive smile, 
A feverish glow of triumph dyed 
His burning cheek, w^hile thus he cried : — 
" Yes ! these are death pangs — on thy brow 
Is set the seal of vengeance now ! 
Oh ! well was mix'd the deadly draught, 
And long and deeply hast thou quaff' d ; 
And bitter as thy pangs may be. 
They are but guerdons meet from me ! 
Yet, these are but a moment's throes, 
Howe'er intense, they soon shall close. 
Soon shalt thou yield thy fleeting breath. 
My life hath been a lingering death ; 
Since one dark hour of woe and crime, 
A blood-spot on the page of time ! 

" Deem'st thou my mind of reason void ? 
It is not frenzied, — but destroy' d ! 
Aye ! view the wreck with shuddering thought, • 
That work of ruin thou hast wrought ! 

" The secret of thy doom to tell. 
My name alone suffices well ! 
Stephania ! once a hero's bride ! 
Otho ! thou know'st the rest — he died. 
Yes ! trusting to a monarch's word, 
The Roman fell, untried, unheard ! 



(49) 

And thou, whose every pledge was vain, 
How couidst thou trust in aught again? 

««He died, and I was changed — my soul, 
A lonely wanderer, spurn' d control. 
From peace, and light, and glory hurl'd. 
The outcast of a purer world, 
I saw each brighter hope o'erthrown, 
And lived for one dread task alone. 
The task is closed — fulfill' d the vow, 
The hand of death is on thee now. 
Betrayer ! in thy turn betray'd. 
The debt of blood shall soon be paid ! 
Thine hour is come — the time hath been 
My heart had shrunk from such a scene ; 
That feeling long is past — my fate 
Hath made me stern as desolate. 

"Ye, that round me shuddering stand, 
Ye chiefs and princes of the land ! 
Mourn ye a guilty monarch's doom? 
— Ye wept not o'er the patriot's tomb! 
He sleeps unhonor'd — yet be mine 
To share his low, neglected shrine. 
His soul with freedom finds a home. 
His grave is that of glory — Rome ! 
Are not the great of old with her, 
That city of the sepulchre? 
Lead me to death ! and let me share 
. The slumbers of the mighty there !" 

The day departs — that fearful day 
Fades in calm loveliness away ; 



(50) 

From purple heavens its lingering beam 
Seems melting into Tiber's stream, 
And softly tints each Roman hill 
With glowing light, as clear and still, 
As if, unstain'd by crime or woe, 
Its hours had pass'd in silent flow. 
The day sets calmly — it hath been 
Mark'd with a strange and awful scene ; 
One guilty bosom throbs no more. 
And Otho's pangs and life are o'er. 
And thou, ere yet another sun 
His burning race hath brightly run. 
Released from anguish by thy foes. 
Daughter of Rome ! shalt find repose. — 
Yes ! on thy country's lovely sky 
Fix yet once more thy parting eye ! 
A few short hours- — and all shall be 
The silent and the past for thee. 
Oh ! thus with tempests of a day 
We struggle, and we pass away. 
Like the wild billows as they sweep. 
Leaving no vestige on the deep ! 
And o'er thy dark and lowly bed 
The sons of future days shall tread. 
The pangs, the conflicts, of thy lot. 
By them unknown, by thee forgot. 



(51 ) 



THE DEATH OF CONRADIN. 

No cloud to dim the splendor of the day 
Which breaks o'er Naples and her lovely bay, 
And lights that brilliant sea and magic shore 
With every tint that charm' d the great of yore ; 
Th' imperial ones of earth — who proudly bade 
Their marble domes e'en Ocean's realm invade. 

That race is gone — but glorious Nature here 
Maintains unchanged her own sublime career, 
And bids these regions of the sun display 
Bright hues, surviving empires pass'd away. 

The beam of Heaven expands — its kindling smile 
Reveals each charm of many a fairy isle. 
Whose image floats, in softer coloring drest, 
With all its rocks and vines, on Ocean's breast. 
Misenum's cape hath caught the vivid ray. 
On Roman streamers there no more to play ; 
Still, as of old, unalterably bright. 
Lovely it sleeps on Posilippo's height. 
With all Italia' s sunshine to illume 
The ilex canopy of Virgil's tomb. 
Campania's plains rejoice in light, and spread 
Their gay luxuriance o'er the mighty dead ; 
Fair glittering to thine own transparent skies. 
Thy palaces, exulting Naples ! rise ; 
While, far on high, Vesuvius rears his peak, 
Furrow' d and dark with many a lava streak. 



(52) 

Oh, ye bright shores of Circe and the Muse ! 
Rich with all Nature's and all fiction's hues ; 
Who shall explore your regions, and declare 
The poet err'd to paint Elysium there ? 
Call up his spirit, wanderer ! bid him guide 
Thy steps, those siren-haunted seas beside ; 
And all the scene a lovelier light shall wear, 
And spells more potent shall pervade the air. 
What though his dust be scatter' d, and his urn 
Long from its sanctuary of slumber torn, 
Still dwell the beings of his verse around. 
Hovering in beauty o'er th' enchanted ground : 
His lays are murmur' d in each breeze that roves 
Soft o'er the sunny waves and orange groves ; 
His memory's charm is spread o'er shore and sea, 
The soul, the genius of Par the nope ; 
Shedding o'er myrtle shade and vine-clad hill 
The purple radiance of Elysium still. 

Yet that fair soil and calm resplendent sky 
Have witness' d many a dark reality. 
Ofl o'er those bright blue seas the gale hath borne 
The sighs of exiles never to return. 
There with the whisper of Campania's gale 
Hath mingled oft affection's funeral wail, 
Mourning for buried heroes — while to her 
That glowing land was but their sepulchre. 
And there of old the dread mysterious moan 
S weird from strange voices of no mortal tone ; 
And that wild trumpet, whose unearthly note 
Was heard, at midnight, o'er the hills to float 
Around the spot where Agrippina died, 
Denouncing vengeance on the matricide. 



(53) 

Past are those ages — yet another crime, 
Another woe, must stain th' Elysian clime. 
There stands a scaffold on the sunny shore — 
It must be crimson' d ere the day is o'er ! 
There is a throne in regal pomp array'd, — 
A scene of death from thence must be survey'd. 
Mark'd ye the rushing throngs ? — each mien is pale, 
Each hurried glance reveals a fearful tale ; 
But the deep workings of th' indignant breast, 
Wrath, hatred, pity, must be all suppress'd ; 
The burning tear awhile must check its course, 
Th' avenging thought concentrate all its force ; 
For tyranny is near, and will not brook 
Aught but submission in each guarded look. 

Girt with his fierce Provencals, and with mien 
Austere in triumph, gazing on the scene, 
And in his eye a keen suspicious glance 
Of jealous pride and restless vigilance, 
Behold the conqueror ! — vainly in his face. 
Of gentler feeling hope would seek a trace : 
Cold, proud, severe, the spirit which hath lent 
Its haughty stamp to each dark lineament ; 
And pleading Mercy, in the sternness there, 
May read at once her sentence — to despair. 

But thou, fair boy ! the beautiful, the brave, 
Thus passing from the dungeon to the grave, 
While all is yet around thee which can give 
A charm to earth, and make it bliss to live ; 
Thou on whose form hath dwelt a mother's eye, 
Till the deep love that not with thee shall die 
Hath grown too full for utterance — Can it be? 
And is this pomp of death prepared for thee 1 



(54) 

Young, royal Conradin ! who shouldst have known 

Of life as yet the sunny smile alone ! 

Oh ! who can view thee, in the pride and bloom 

Of youth, array 'd so richly for the tomb, 

Nor feel, deep swelling in his inmost soul, 

Emotions tyranny may ne'er control ? 

Bright victim ! to Ambition's altar led, 

Crown' d with all flowers that heaven on earth can shed, 

Who, from th' oppressor towering in his pride. 

May hope for mercy — if to thee denied ] 

There is dead silence on the breathless throng. 

Dead silence all the peopled shore along, 

As on the captive moves — the only sound, 

To break that calm so fearfully profound. 

The low, sweet murmur of the rippling wave. 

Soft as it glides, the smiling shore to lave ; 

While on that shore, his own fair heritage, 

The youthful martyr to a tyrant's rage 

Is passing to his fate ; the eyes are dim 

Which gaze, through tears that dare not flow, on him. 

He mounts the scaffold — doth his footstep fail ? 

Doth his lip quiver ? doth his cheek turn pale ? 

Oh ! it may be forgiven him if a thought 

Cling to that world, for him with beauty fraught, 

To all the hopes that promised glory's meed, 

And all th' aflfections that with him shall bleed ! 

If, in his life's young dayspring, while the rose 

Of boyhood on his cheek yet freshly glows. 

One human fear convulse his parting breath, 

And shrink from all the bitterness of death I 

But no ! the spirit of his royal race 
Sits brightly on his brow — that youthful face 



(55) 

Beams with heroic beauty, and his eye 
Is eloquent with injured majesty. 
He kneels — but not to man — his heart shall own 
Such deep submission to his God alone ! 
And who can tell with what sustaining power 
That God may visit him in fate's dread hour? 
How still the voice, which answers every moan, 
May speak of hope — when hope on earth is gone? 
That solemn pause is o'er — the youth hath given 
One glance of parting love to earth and heaven : 
The sun rejoices in th' unclouded sky, 
Life all around him glows — and he must die ! 
Yet 'midst his people, undismay'd, he throws 
The gage of vengeance for a thousand woes ; 
Vengeance, that, like their own volcano's fire. 
May sleep suppress'd a while — but not expire. 
One softer image rises o'er his breast, 
One fond regret, and all shall be at rest ! 
" Alas, for thee, my mother ! who shall bear 
To thy sad heart the tidings of despair. 
When thy lost child is gone?"— that thought can thrill 

His soul with pangs one moment more shall still. 

The lifted axe is glittering in the sun — 

It falls — the race of Conradin is run ! 

Yet, from the blood which flows that shore to stain, 

A voice shall cry to heaven — and not in vain ! 

Gaze thou, triumphant from thy gorgeous throne, 

In proud supremacy of guilt alone, 

Charles of Anjou ! but that dread voice shall be 

A fearful summoner e'en yet to thee ! 

The scene of death is closed — the throngs depart, 

A deep stern lesson graved on every heart. 



(56) 

No pomp, no funeral rites, no streaming eyes,- 
High-minded boy ! may grace thine obsequies. 
O, vainly royal and beloved ! thy grave, 
Unsanctified, is bathed by Ocean's wave ; 
Mark'd by no stone, a rude, neglected spot, 
Unhonor'd, unadorn'd — but unforgot ; 
For thy deep wrongs in tameless hearts shall live, 
Now mutely suffering - — never to forgive ! 

The sunset fades from purple heavens away — 
A bark hath anchor' d in th' unruffled bay ; 
Thence on the beach descends a female form. 
Her mien with hope and tearful transport warm ; 
But life hath left sad traces on her cheek. 
And her sofl eyes a chasten'd heart bespeak, 
Inured to woes — yet what were all the past ! 
She sunk not feebly 'neath affliction's blast, 
While one bright hope remain' d — who now shall tell 
Th' uncrown'd, the widow'd, how her loved one fell ? 
To clasp her child, to ransom and to save. 
The mother came — and she hath found his grave ! 
And by that grave, transfix'd in speechless grief, 
Whose death-like trance denies a tear's relief. 
Awhile she kneels — till roused at length to know, 
To feel the might, the fulness of her woe. 
On the still air a voice of anguish wild, 
A mother's cry is heard — ''My Conradin ! my child!" 



(57) 



EDITH; A TALE OF THE WOODS.* 

The woods — oh ! solemn are the boundless woods 

Of the great Western World, when day declines, 
And louder sounds the roll of distant floods, 

More deep the rustling of the ancient pines : 
When dimness gathers on the stilly air, 

And mystery seems o'er every leaf to brood. 
Awful it is for human heart to bear 

The might and burden of the solitude ! 
Yet, in that hour, 'midst those green wastes, there sate 
One young and fair ; and oh ! how desolate ! 
But undismay'd ; while sank the crimson light. 
And the high cedars darken'd with the night. 
Alone she sate ; though many lay around. 
They, pale and silent on the bloody ground. 
Were sever' d from her need and from her woe. 

Far as Death severs Life. O'er that ,wild spot 
Combat had raged, and brought the valiant low, 

And left them, with the history of their lot, 
Unto the forest oaks. A fearful scene 
For her whose home of other days had been 
'Midst the fair halls of England ! but the love 

Which fill'd her soul was strong to cast out fear ; 
And by its might upborne all else above. 

She shrank not~mark'd not that the dead were near. 



* Founded on incidents related in an American work, *' Sketches of 
Connecticut." 



(58) 

0£ him alone she thought, whose languid head 

Faintly upon her wedded bosom fell ; 
Memory of aught but him on earth was fled, 

While heavily she felt his life-blood well 
Fast o'er her garments forth, and vainly bound 
With her torn robe and hair the streaming wound, 
Yet hoped, still hoped ! — Oh ! from such hope how 
long 

Affection wooes the whispers that deceive, 
Ev'n when the pressure of dismay grows strong, 

And we, that weep, watch, tremble, ne'er believe 
The blow indeed can fall ! So bow'd she there, 
Over the dying, while unconscious prayer 
Fiird all her soul. Now pour'd the moonlight down, 
Veining the pine-stems through the foliage brown, 
And fireflies, kindling up the leafy place, 
Cast fitful radiance o'er the warrior's face. 
Whereby she caught its changes : to her eye 

The eye that faded look'd through gathering haze. 
Whence love, o'ermastering mortal agony, 

Lifted a long deep melancholy gaze. 
When voice was not; that fond sad meaning pass'd — 
She knew the fullness of her woe at last ! 
One shriek the forests heard, — and mute she lay 
And cold ; yet clasping still the precious clay 
To her scarce-heaving breast. Oh, Love and Death, 
Ye have sad meetings on this changeful earth, 
Many and sad ! but airs of heavenly breath 
Shall melt the links which bind you, for your birth 
Is far apart. 

Now light, of a richer hue 
Than the moon sheds, came flushing mist and dew ; 



(59) 

The pines grew red with morning ; fresh winds play'd, 
Bright-color' d birds with splendor cross' d the shade, 
Flitting on flower-like wings ; glad murmurs broke 

From reed, and spray, and leaf, the living strings 
Of earth's Eolian lyre, whose music woke 

Into young life and joy all happy things. 
And she too woke from that long dreamless trance, 
The widow' d Edith : fearfully her glance 
Fell, as in doubt, on faces dark and strange, 
And dusky forms. A sudden sense of change 
Flash'd o'er her spirit, ev'n ere memory swept 
The tide of anguish back with thoughts that slept ; 
Yet half instinctively she rose, and spread 
Her arms, as 'twere for something lost or fled. 
Then faintly sank again. The forest bough. 
With all its whispers, waved not o'er her now, — 
Where was she? 'Midst the people of the wild. 

By the red hunter's fire : an aged chief. 
Whose home look'd sad — for therein play'd no child — 

Had borne her, in the stillness of her grief, 
To that lone cabin of the woods ; and there. 
Won by a form so desolately fair, 
Or touch' d with thoughts from some past sorrow 

sprung, 
O'er her low couch an Indian matron hung. 
While in grave silence, yet with earnest eye. 
The ancient warrior of the waste stood by. 
Bending in watchfulness his proud grey head. 

And leaning on his bow. 

And life return' d. 
Life, but with all its memories of the dead. 

To Edith's heart ; and well the sufferer learn' d 



(60) 

Her task of meek endurance, well she wore 
The chasten'd grief that humbly can adore, 
'Midst blinding tears. But unto that old pair, 
Ev'n as a breath of spring's awakening air, 
Her presence was ; or as a sweet wild tune 
Bringing back tender thoughts, which all too soon 
Depart with childhood. Sadly they had seen 

A daughter to the land of spirits go. 
And ever from that time her fading mien, 

And voice, like winds of summer, soft and low, 
Had haunted their dim years ; but Edith's face 
Now look'd in holy sweetness from her place. 
And they again seem'd parents. Oh ! the joy, 
The rich deep blessedness — though earth's alloy. 
Fear that still bodes, be there — of pouring forth 
The heart's whole power of love, its wealth and 

worth 
Of strong affection, in one healthful flow. 
On something all its own ! — that kindly glow. 
Which to shut inward is consuming pain. 
Gives the glad soul its flowering time again. 
When, like the sunshine, freed. — And gentle cares 
Th' adopted Edith meekly gave for theirs 
Who loved her thus : — her spirit dwelt, the while, 
With the departed, and her patient smile 
Spoke of farewells to earth; — yet still she pray'd, 
Ev'n o'er her soldier's lowly grave, for aid 
One purpose to fulfil, to leave one trace 
Brightly recording that her dwelling-place 
Had been among the wilds ; for well she knew 
The secret whisper of her bosom true. 
Which warn'd her hence. 



(61) 

And now, by many a word 

Link'd unto moments when the heart was stirr'd, 

By the sweet mournfuhiess of many a hymn, 

Sung when the woods at eve grew hush'd and dim, 

By the persuasion of her fervent eye, 

All eloquent with childlike piety. 

By the still beauty of her life, she strove 

To win for heaven, and heaven-born truth, the love 

Pour'd out on her so freely. — Nor in vain 

Was that sofl-breatWng influence to enchain 

The soul in gentle bonds : by slow degrees 

Light follow' d on, as when a summer breeze 

Parts the deep masses of the forest shade 

And lets the sunbeam through : — her voice was made 

Ev'n such a breeze ; and she a lowly guide. 

By faith and sorrow raised and purified. 

So to the Cross her Indian fosterers led. 

Until their prayers were one. When morning spread 

O'er the blue lake, and when the sunset's glow 

Touch'd into golden bronze the cypress bough. 

And when the quiet of the Sabbath time 

Sank on her heart, though no melodious chime 

Waken' d the wilderness, their prayers were one. 

— Now might she pass in hope, her work was done. 

And she was passing from the woods away ; 

The broken flower of England might not stay 

Amidst those alien shades ; her eye was bright 

Ev'n yet with something of a starry light. 

But her form wasted, and her fair young cheek 

Wore ofl and patiently a fatal streak 

A rose whose root was death. The parting sigh 

Of autumn through the forests had gone by, 

6 



(62) 

And the rich maple o'er her wanderings lone 

Its crimson leaves in many a shower had strown, 

Flushing the air ; and winter's blast had been 

Amidst the pines ; and now a softer green 

Fringed their dark boughs ; for spring again had come, 

The sunny spring ! but Edith to her home 

Was journeying fast. Alas ! we think it sad 

To part with life, when all the earth looks glad 

In her young lovely things, when voices break 

Into sweet sounds, and leaves and fclossoms wake : 

Is it not brighter then, in that far clime 

Where graves are not, nor blights of changeful time, 

If here such glory dwell with passing blooms, 

Such golden sunshine rest around the tombs ? 

So thought the dying one. 'Twas early day, 

And sounds and odors with the breezes' play. 

Whispering of spring-time, through the cabin door. 

Unto her couch life's farewell sweetness bore ; 

Then with a look where all her hope awoke, 

"My father!" — to the grey-hair'd chief she spoke ^ — 

"Know'st thou that I depart?" — "I know, I know," 

He answ^er'd mournfully, " that thou must go 

To thy beloved, my daughter !" — " Sorrow not 

For me, kind mother !" with meek smiles once more 
She murmur' d in low tones ; " one happy lot 

Awaits us, friends ! upon the better shore ; 
For we have pray'd together in one trust. 
And lifted our frail spirits from the dust. 
To God, who gave them. Lay me by mine own, 
Under the cedar shade : where he is gone 
Thither I go. There will my sisters be, 
And the dead parents, lisping at whose knee 



(63) 

My childhood's prayer was learn'd, — the Saviour's prayer 

Which now ye know, — and I shall meet you there, 

Father, and gentle mother ! — ye have bound 

The bruised reed, and mercy shall be found 

By Mercy's children." — From the matron's eye 

Dropp'd tears, her sole and passionate reply ; 

But Edith felt them not ; for now a sleep, 

Solemnly beautiful, a stillness deep. 

Fell on her settled face. Then, sad and slow. 

And mantling up his stately head in woe, 

"Thou'rt passing hence," he sang, that warrior old. 

In sounds like those by plaintive waters roU'd. 

" Thou'rt passing from the lake's green side, 

And the hunter's hearth away ; 
For the time of flowers, for the summer's pride. 

Daughter ! thou canst not stay. 

Thou'rt journeying to thy spirit's home, 

Where the skies are ever clear ; 
The corn-month's golden hours will come. 

But they shall not find thee here. 

And we shall miss thy voice, my bird ! 

Under our whispering pine ; 
Music shall 'midst the leaves be heard. 

But not a song like thine. 

A breeze that roves o'er stream and hill, 

Telling of winter gone. 
Hath such sweet falls — yet caught we still 

A farewell in its tone. 



(64) 

But thou, my bright one ! thou shalt be 

Where farewell sounds are o'er ; 
Thou, in the eyes thou lov'st, shalt see 

No fear of parting more. 

The mossy grave thy tears have wet. 

And the wind's wild moanings by, 
Thou with thy kindred shalt forget, 

'Midst flowers — not such as die. 

The shadow from thy brow shall melt, 

The sorrow from thy strain. 
But where thine earthly smile hath dwelt, 

Our hearts shall thirst in vain 

Dim will our cabin be, and lone, 

When thou, its light, art fled ; 
Yet hath thy step the pathway shown 

Unto the happy dead. 

And we will follow thee, our guide ! 

And join that shining band ; 
Thou'rt passing from the lake's green side — 

Go to the better land !" 

The song had ceased — the listeners caught no breath, 
That lovely sleep had melted into death. 



(65) 



PROPERZIA ROSSI. 

I. 

One dream of passion and of beauty more ! 

And in its bright falfilment let me pour 

My soul away ? Let earth retain a trace 

Of that which lit my being, though its race 

Might have been loftier far. — Yet one more dream ! 

From my deep spirit one victorious gleam 

Ere I depart ! For thee alone, for thee ! 

May this last work, this farewell triumph be, 

Thou, loved so vainly ! I would leave enshrined 

Something immortal of my heart and mind, 

That yet may speak to thee when I am gone, 

Shaking thine inmost bosom v/ith a tone 

Of lost affection ; — something that may prove 

What she hath been, whose melancholy love 

On thee was lavish'd ; silent pang and tear, 

And fervent song that gush'd when none w^ere near, 

And dream by night, and weary thought by day. 

Stealing the brightness from her life away, — 

While thou Awake ! not yet within me die. 

Under the burden and the agony 

Of this vain tenderness, — my spirit, wake ! 

Ev'n for thy sorrowful affection's sake. 

Live ! in thy work breathe out ! — that he may yet. 

Feeling sad mastery there, perchance regret 

Thine unrequited gift. 



(66) 

11. 

It comes, — the power 
Within me born, flows back ; my fruitless dower, 
That could not win me love. Yet once again 
I greet it proudly, with its rushing train 
Of glorious images : — they throng — they press — 
A sudden joy lights up my loneliness, 
I shall not perish all ! 

The bright work grows 
Beneath my hand, unfolding, as a rose, 
Leaf after leaf, to beauty ; line by line, 
I fix my thought, heart, soul, to burn, to shine. 
Through the pale marble's veins. It grows — and now 
I give my own life's history to thy brow, 
Forsaken Ariadne ! thou shalt wear 
My form, my lineaments ; but oh ! more fair. 
Touch' d into lovelier being by the glow 

Which in me dwells, as by the summer-light 
All things are glorified. From thee my woe 

Shall yet look beautiful to meet his sight, 
When I am pass'd away. Thou art the mould 
Wherein I pour the fervent thoughts, th' untold. 
The self-consuming ! Speak to him of me, 
Thou, the deserted by the lonely sea. 
With the soft sadness of thine earnest eye. 
Speak to him, lorn one! deeply, mournfully. 
Of all my love and grief ! Oh ! could I throw 
Into thy frame a voice, a sweet, and low. 
And thrilling voice of song ! when he came nigh, 
To send the passion of its melody 
Through his pierced bosom — on its tones to bear 
My life's deep feeling, as the southern air 



(67) 

Wafls the faint myrtle's breath, — to rise, to swell, 

To sink away in accents of farewell, 

Winning but one, one gush of tears, whose flow 

Surely my parted spirit yet might know, 

If love be strong as death ! 

III. 

Now fair thou art, 
Thou form, whose life is of my burning heart ! 
Yet all the vision that within me wrought, 

It cannot make thee ! Oh ! I might have given 
Birth to creations of far nobler thought, 

I might have kindled, with the fire of heaven, 
Things not of such as die ! But I have been 
Too much alone ; a heart whereon to lean, 
With all these deep affections, that o'erfiow 
My aching soul, and find no shore below ; 
An eye to be my star, a voice to bring 
Hope o'er my path, like sounds that breathe of spring, 
These are denied me — dreamt of still in vain, — 
Therefore my brief aspirings from the chain. 
Are ever but some wild and fitful song, 
Rising triumphantly, to die ere long 
In dirge-like echoes. 

IV. 

Yet the world will see 
Little of this, my parting work, in thee, 

Thou shalt have fame ! Oh, mockery ! give the reed 
From storms a shelter, — give the drooping vine 
Something round which its tendrils may entwine, — 

Give the parch' d flower a rain drop, and the meed 



(68) 

Of love's kind words to woman ! Worthless fame ! 

That in his bosom wins not for my name 

Th' abiding-place it ask'd ! Yet how my heart, 

In its own fairy world of song and art, 

Once beat for praise ! — Are those high longings o'er ? 

That which I have been can I be no more ? — 

Never, oh ! never more ; though still thy sky 

Be blue as then, my glorious Italy ! 

And though the music, whose rich breathings fill 

Thine air with soul, be wandering past me still. 

And though the mantle of thy sunlight streams, 

Unchanged on forms, instinct with poet dreams ; 

Never, oh ! never more ! where'er I move, 

The shadow of this broken-hearted love 

Is on me and around ! Too well they know. 

Whose life is all within, too soon and well. 
When there the blight hath settled ; — but I go 

Under the silent wings of peace to dwell ; 
From the slow wasting, from the lonely pain. 
The inward burning of those words — in vain^'^^ 

Sear'd on the heart — I go. 'Twill soon be past. 
Sunshine, and song, and bright Italian heaven, 

And thou, oh ! thou on whom my spirit cast 
Unvalued wealth, — who know'st not what was given 
In that devotedness, — the sad, and deep, 
And unrepaid — farewell ! If I could weep 
Once, only once, beloved one ! on thy breast, 
Pouring my heart forth ere I sink to rest ! 
But that were happiness, and unto me 
Earth's gift is fame. Yet I was form'd to be 
So richly blest ! With thee to watch the sky, 
Speaking not, feeling but that thou wert nigh ; 



(69) 

With thee to listen, while the tones of song 

Swept ev'n as part of our sweet air along, 

To listen silently; — with thee to gaze 

On forms, the deified of olden days, 

This had been joy enough ; and hour by hour. 

From its glad well-springs drinking life and power. 

How had my spirit soar'd, and made its fame 

A glory for thy brow! — Dreams, dreams! — the fire 
Burns faint within me. Yet I leave my name — 

As a deep thrill may linger on the lyre 
When its full chords are hush'd — awhile to live, 
And one day haply in thy heart revive 
Sad thoughts of me: — I leave it, with a sound, 
A spell o'er memory, mournfully profound, 
I leave it, on my country's air to dwell, — 
Say proudly yet — "'Twas hers who loved me well P' 



THE FESTAL HOUR. 

When are the lessons given 
That shake the startled earth? When wakes the foe 
While the friend sleeps? When falls the traitor's blow? 

When are proud sceptres riven, 
High hopes o'erthrown ? — It is when lands rejoice, 
When cities blaze and lifl th' exulting voice. 
And wave their banners to the kindling heaven ! 

Fear ye the festal hour ! 
When mirth o'erflows, then tremble ! — 'T was a night 
Of gorgeous revel, wreaths, and dance, and light, 



(70) 

When through the regal bower 
The trumpet peal'd, ere yet the song was done, 
And there were shrieks in golden Babylon, 
And trampling armies, ruthless in their power. 

The marble shrines were crown' d : 
Young voices through the blue Athenian sky, 
And Dorian reeds, made summer melody. 

And censers waved around ; 
And lyres were strung and bright libations pour'd ! 
When, through the streets, flash' d out th' avenging sword, 
Fearless and free, the sword with myrtles bound ! 

Through Rome a triumph pass'd. 
Rich in her sun-god's mantling beams went by 
That long array of glorious pageantry, 

With shout and trumpet-blast. 
An empire's gems their starry splendor shed 
O'er the proud march ; a king in chains was led ; 
A stately victor, crown' d and robed, came last. 

And many a Dryad's bower 
Had lent the laurel's which, in waving play, 
Stirr'd the warm air, and glisten' d round his way, 

As a quick-flashing shower. 
— O'er his own porch, meantime, the cypress hung. 
Through his fair halls a cry of anguish rung — 
Woe for the dead ! — the father's broken flower ! 

A sound of lyre and song, 
In the still night, went floating o'er the Nile, 
Whose waves, by many an old mysterious pile. 



(71) 

Swept with that voice along ; 
And lamps were shining o'er the red wine's foam 
Where a chief revell'd in a monarch's dome, 
And fresh rose-garlands deck'd a glittering throng. 

'Twas Antony that bade 
The joyous chords ring out ! — but strains arose 
Of wilder omen at the banquet's close ! 

Sounds, by no mortal made, 
Shook Alexandria through her streets that night, 
And pass'd — and with another sunset's light, 
The kingly Roman on his bier was laid. 

Bright 'midst its vineyards lay 
The fair Campanian city, with its towers 
And temples gleaming through dark olive-bowers. 

Clear in the golden day ; 
Joy was around it as the glowing sky, 
And crowds had fill'd its halls of revelry, 
And all the sunny air was music's way. 

A cloud came o'er the face 
Of Italy's rich heaven! — its crystal blue 
Was changed, and deepen'd to a wrathful hue 

Of night, o'ershadowing space, 
As with the wings of death ! — in all his power 
Vesuvius woke, and hurl'd the burning shower, 
And who could tell the buried city's place ? 

Such things have been of yore. 
In the gay regions where the citrons blow. 
And purple summers all their sleepy glow 



(72) 

On the grape-clusters pour ; 
And where the palms to spicy winds are waving, 
Along clear seas of melting sapphire, laving. 
As with a flow of light, their southern shore. 

Turn we to other climes ! — 
Far in the Druid-Isle a feast was spread, 
'Midst the rock-altars of the warrior dead : 

And ancient battle-rhymes 
Were chaunted to the harp ; and yellow mead 
Went flowing round, and tales of martial deed. 
And lofty songs of Britain's elder time ; 

But, ere the giant-fane 
Cast its broad shadows on the robe of even, 
Hush'd were the bards, and in the face of heaven. 

O'er that old burial-plain 
Flash' d the keen Saxon dagger ! — Blood was streaming 
Where late the mead-cup to the sun was gleaming. 
And Britain's hearths were heap'd that night in vain — 

For they return' d no more ! 
They that went forth at morn with reckless heart, 
In that fierce banquet's mirth to bear their part ; 

And, on the rushy floor. 
And the bright spears and bucklers of the walls, 
The high wood fires were blazing in their halls; 
But not for them — they slept — their feast was o'er! 

Fear ye the festal hour ! 
Aye, tremble when the cup of joy o'erflows ! 
Tame down the swelling heart ! — the bridal rose, 



(73) 

And the rich myrtle's flower 
Have veil'd the sword! — Red wines have sparkled fast 
From venom'd goblets, and soft breezes pass'd, 
With fatal perfume, through the revel's bower. 

Twine the young glowing wreath ! 
But pour not all your spirit in the song. 
Which through the sky's deep azure floats along 

Like summers quickening breath ! 
The ground is hollow in the path of mirth : 
Oh ! far too daring seems the joy of earth, 
So darkly press' d and girdled in by death ! 



JOAN OF ARC, IN RHEIMS. 

That was a joyous day in Rheims of old, 
When peal on peal of mighty music roU'd 
Forth from her throng'd cathedral ; while around, 
A multitude, whose billows made no sound. 
Chain' d to a hush of wonder, though elate 
With victory, listen'd at their temple's gate. 
And what was done within? — within, the light 

Through the rich gloom of pictured windows flowing 
Tinged with soft awfulness a stately sight. 

The chivalry of France, their proud heads bowing 
In martial vassalage 1 — while 'midst that ring. 
And shadow'd by the ancestral tombs, a king 

=1_^^ 



(74) 

Received his birthright's crown. For this, the hymn 

S weird out like rushing waters, and the day 
With the sweet censer's misty breath grew dim, 

As through long aisles it floated o'er th' array 
Of arms and sweeping stoles. But who, alone 
And unapproach'd, beside the altar-stone. 
With the white banner, forth like sunshine streaming. 
And the gold helm, through clouds of fragrance gleam- 
ing,— 
Silent and radiant stood ? — the helm was raised. 
And the fair face reveal' d that upward gazed 

Intensely w^orshipping : — a still, clear face, 
Youthful, but brightly solemn ! — Woman's cheek 
And brow were there, in deep devotion meek, 

Yet glorified with inspiration's trace 
On its pure paleness ; while, enthroned above. 
The pictured Virgin, with her smile of love, 
Seem'd bending o'er her votaress. — That slio;ht form! 
Was that the leader through the battle storm ? 
Had the soft light in that adoring eye. 
Guided the warrior where the swords flash'd high ? 
'Twas so, even so! — and thou, the shepherd's child 
Joanne, the lowly dreamer of the wild ! 
Never before, and never since that hour, 
Hath woman, mantled with victorious power. 
Stood forth as thou beside the shrine didst stand, 
Holy amidst the knighthood of the land ; 
And beautiful with joy and with renown, 
Lift thy white banner o'er the olden crown, 
Ransom' d for France by thee I 

The rites are done. 
Now let the dome with trumpet-notes be shaken, 



(75) 

And bid the echoes of the tombs awaken, 

And come thou forth, that Heaven's rejoicing sun 
May give thee welcome from thine own blue skies, 

Daughter of victory ! — a triumphant strain, 
A proud rich stream of warlike melodies, 

Gush'd through the portals of the antique fane, 
And forth she came. — Then rose a nation's sound ! 
Oh ! what a power to bid the quick heart bound. 
The wind bears onward with the stormy cheer 
Man gives to glory on her high career ! 
Is there indeed such power ? — far deeper dwells 
In one kind household voice, to reach the cells 
Whence happiness flow'd forth! — the shouts that fiU'd 
The hollow heaven tempestuously, were still' d 
One moment; and in that brief pause, the tone. 
As of a breeze that o'er her home had blown, 
Sank on the bright maid's heart. — "Joanne!" — who spoke 

Like those whose childhood with her childhood grew 
Under one roof? — "Joanne!" — that murmur broke 

With sounds of weeping forth! — She turn'd — she knew 
Beside her, mark'd from all the thousands there, 
In the calm beauty of his silver hair. 
The stately shepherd ; and the youth, whose joy 
From his dark eye flash' d proudly ; and the boy, 
The youngest-born, that ever loved her best ; 
"Father! and ye, my brothers!" — On the breast 
Of that grey sire she sank — and swiftly back, 
Ev'n in an instant, to their native track 
Her free thoughts flow'd. — She saw the pomp no more — 
The plumes, the banners : — to her cabin door, 
And to the Fairy's fountain in the glade. 
Where her young sisters by her side had play'd, 

_____J 



(76) 

And to her hamlet's chapel, where it rose 

Hallowing the forest unto deep repose, 

Her spirit turn'd. — The very wood-note, sung 

In early spring-time by the bird, which dwelt 
Where o'er her father's roof the beech leaves hung. 

Was in her heart ; a music heard and felt, 
Winning her back to nature. — She unbound 

The helm of many battles from her head. 
And, with her bright locks bow'd to sweep the ground, 

Lifting her voice up, wept for joy, and said, — 
" Bless me, my father, bless me ! and with thee, 
To the still cabin and the beechen tree, 
Let me return !" 

Oh ! never did thine eye 
Though the green haunts of happy infancy 
Wander again, Joanne ! — too much of fame 
Had shed its radiance on thy peasant name ; 
And bought alone by gifts beyond all price, 
The trusting heart's repose, the paradise 
Of home with all its loves, doth fate allow 
The crown of glory unto woman's brow. 



THE AMERICAN FOREST GIRL. 

Wildly and mournfully the Indian drum 

On the deep hush of moonlight forests broke ; — 

"Sing us a death song, for thine hour is come," — 
So the red warriors to their captive spoke. 

Still, and amidst those dusky forms alone, 



(77) 

A youth, a fair-hair' d youth of England stood, 
Like a king's son ; though from his cheek had flown 

The mantling crimson of the island-blood. 
And his press'd lips look'd marble. — Fiercely bright, 
And high around him, blazed the fires of night. 
Rocking beneath the cedars to and fro. 
As the wind pass'd, and with a fitful glow 
Lighting the victim's face: — But who could tell 
Of what within his secret heart befell. 
Known but to heaven that hour? — Perchance a thought 
Of his far home then so intensely wrought. 
That its full image, pictured to his eye 
On the dark ground of mortal agony. 
Rose clear as day ! — and he might see the band, 
Of his young sisters w^andering hand in hand. 
Where the laburnums droop'd ; or haply binding 
The jasmine, up the door's low pillars winding ; 
Or, as day closed upon their gentle iTiirth, 
Gathering, with braided hair, around the hearth 
Where sat their mother ; — and that mother's face 
Its grave sweet smile yet wearing in the place 
Where so it ever smiled ! — Perchance the prayer 
Learn'd at her knee came back on his despair ; 
The blessing from her voice, the very tone 
Of her " Good night,'' might breathe from boyhood 

gone ! 
He started and look'd up ; — thick cypress boughs 

Full of strange sound, waved o'er him, darkly red 
In the broad stormy firelight ; — savage brows. 

With tall plumes crested and wild hues o'erspread. 
Girt him like feverish phantoms ; and pale stars 
Look'd through the branches as through dungeon bars. 



(78) 

Shedding no hope. — He knew, he felt his doom — 

Oh ! what a tale to shadow with its gloom 

That happy hall in England ! — Idle fear ! 

Would the winds tell it? — Who might dream or hear 

The secret of the forests ? — To the stake 

They bound him ; and that proud young soldier strove 
His father's spirit in his breast to wake, 

Trusting to die in silence ! He, the love 
Of many hearts! — the londly rear'd, — the fair. 
Gladdening all eyes to see! — And fetterM there 
He stood beside his death-pyre, and the brand 
Flamed up to light it, in the chieftain's hand. 

He thought upon his God. — Hush ! hark ! — a cry 

Breaks on the stern and dread solemnity, — 

A step hath pierced the ring ! — Who dares intrude 

On the dark hunters in their vengeful mood ? — 

A girl — a young slight girl — a fawn-like child 

Of green savannas and the leafy wild. 

Springing unmark'd till then, as some lone flower, 

Happy because the sunshine is its dower ; 

Yet one that knew how early tears are shed, — 

For hers had mourn' d a playmate brother dead. 

She had sat gazing on the victim long, 

Until the pity of her soul grew strong ; 

And, by its passion's deepening fervor sway'd, 

Ev'n to the stake she rush'd, and gently laid 

His bright head on her bosom, and around 

His form her slender arms to shield it round 

Like close Liannes ; then raised her glittering eye 

And clear-toned voice that said, " He shall not die !" 



(79) 

"He shall not die!" — the gloomy forest thrill'd 

To that sweet sound. A sudden wonder fell 
On the fierce throng ; and heart and hand were still' d, 

Struck down, as by the whisper of a spell. 
They gazed, — their dark souls bow'd before the maid, 
She of the dancing step in wood and glade ! 
And, as her cheek flush' d through its olive hue. 
As her black tresses to the night wind flew. 
Something o'ermaster'd them from that young mien — 
Something of heaven, in silence felt and seen ; 
And seeming, to their child-like faith, a token 
That the Great Spirit by her voice had spoken. 

They loosed the bonds that held their captive's breath ; 
From his pale lips they took the cup of death ; 
They quench' d the brand beneath the cypress tree ; 
^' Away," they cried, " young stranger, thou art free !" 



SONG OF EMIGRATION. 

There was heard a song on the chiming sea, 

A mingled breathing of grief and glee ; 

Man's voice, unbroken by sighs, was there, 

Filling with triumph the sunny air ; 

Of fresh green lands, and of pastures new. 

It sang, while the bark through the surges flew ; 

But ever and anon 

A murmur of farewell 
Told by its plaintive tone. 

That from woman's lip it fell. 



(80) 

" Away, away, o'er the foaming main !" 

— This was the free and the joyous strain — 

" There are clearer skies than ours, afar, 

We will shape our course by a brighter star ; 

There are plains whose verdure no foot hath press' d, 

And whose wealth is all for the first brave guest." 



" But alas ! that we should go" 
— Sang the farewell voices then — 

" From the homesteads, warm and low. 
By the brook and in the glen !" 

" We will rear new homes under trees that glow. 
As if gems v/ere fruitage of every bough ; 
O'er our white walls we will train the vine, 
And sit in its shadow at day's decline ; 
And watch our herds, as they range at will 
Through the green savannas, all bright and still." 

" But woe for that sweet shade 
Of the flowering orchard trees. 

Where first our children play'd 
'Midst the birds and honey bees !" 

" All, all our own shall the forests be. 

As to the bound of the roebuck free ! 

None shall say, ' Hither, no further pass !' 

We will track each step through the wavy grass ; 

We will chase the elk in his speed and might, 

And bring proud spoils to the hearth at night." 



(81) 

" But, oh ! the grey church tower, 
And the sound of Sabbath bell, 

And the shelter' d garden bower, — 
We have bid them all farewell !" 

" We will give the names of our fearless race 
To each bright river whose course we trace ; 
And will leave our memory with mounts and floods. 
And the path of our daring in boundless woods ! 
And our works unto many a lake's green shore, 
Where the Indian's graves lay, alone, before." 

*' But who shall teach the flov/ers, 
Which our children loved, to dwell 

In a soil that is not ours ? 

— Home, home and friends, farewell!" 



THEKLA AT HER LOVER'S GRAVE. 

Thy voice was in my soul ! it call'd me on : 
O my lost friend ! thy voice was in my soul : 

From the cold, faded world, whence thou art gone. 
To hear no more life's troubled billows roll, 
I come, I come ! 

Now speak to me again ! we loved so well — 
We loved I oh ! still, I know that still we love ! 

I have left all things with thy dust to dwell. 

Through these dim aisles in dreams of thee to rove ; 
This is my home ! 



(82) 

Speak to me in the thrilling minster's gloom ! 

Speak ! thou hast died, and sent me no farewell ! 
I will not shrink ; — oh ! mighty is the tomb, 

But one thing mightier, which it cannot quell. 
This woman's heart ! 

This lone, full, fragile heart ! — the strong alone 
In love and grief — of both the burning shrine ! 

Thou, my soul's friend ! with grief hast surely done. 
But with the love which made thy spirit mine. 
Say, couldst thou part ? 

I hear the rustling banners ; and I hear 

The winds low singing through the fretted stone? 

I hear not thee ; and yet I feel thee near — 

What is this bound that keeps thee from thine own ? 
Breathe it away ! 

I wait thee — I adjure thee! hast thou known 

How I have loved thee ? couldst thou dream it all ? 

Am I not here with night and death alone. 
And fearing not? and hath my spirit's call 
O'er thine no sw^ay ? 

Thou canst not come ! or thus I should not weep ! 

Thy love is deathless — but no longer free ! 
Soon would its wing triumphantly o'ersweep 

The viewless barrier, if such power might be. 
Soon, soon, and fast ! 

But I shall come to thee ! our souls' deep dreams. 
Our young affections, have not gush'd in vain ; 

Soon in one tide shall blend the sever'd streams, 

The worn heart break its bonds — and death and pain 
Be with the past ! 



(83) 



ELYSIUM.* 

Fair wert thou in the dreams 
Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers 
And summer winds and low-toned silvery streams 
Dim with the shadows of thy laurel bowers, 

Where, as they pass'd, bright hours 
Left no faint sense of parting, such as clings 
To earthly love, and joy in loveliest things ! 

Fair wert thou with the light 
On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast 
From purple skies ne'er deep'ning into night, 
Yet sofl, as if each moment were their last 

Of glory, fading fast 
Along the mountains ! — but thy golden day 
Was not as those that warn us of decay. 

And ever, through thy shades, 
A swell of deep iEolian sound went by, 
From fountain- voices in their secret glades. 
And low reed- whispers, making sweet reply 

To summer's breezy sigh. 
And young leaves trembling to the winds light breath, 
Which ne'er had touch'd them with a hue of death ! 



* " In the Elysium of the ancients, we find none but heroes and per- 
sons who had either been fortunate or distinguished on earth ; the chil- 
dren, and apparently the slaves and lower classes, that is to say, Poverty, 
Misfortune, and Innocence, were banished to the infernal Regions." — 
Chateaubkiand, Genie du Christianisme. 



(84) 

And the transparent sky 
Rung as a dome, all thrilling to the strain 
Of harps that, 'midst the woods, made harmony 
Solemn and sweet ; yet troubling not the brain 

With dreams and yearnings vain. 
And dim remembrances, that still draw birth 
From the be wild' ring music of the earth. 

And who, with silent tread, 
Moved o'er the plains of waving asphodel ? 
Call'd from the dim procession of the dead. 
Who, 'midst the shadowy amaranth-bowers might dwell, 

And listen to the swell 
Of those majestic hymn-notes, and inhale 
The spirit wandering in the immortal gale ? 

They of the sword, whose praise. 
With the bright wine at nations' feasts, went round ! 
They of the lyre, whose unforgotten lays 
Forth on the winds had sent their mighty sound, 

And in all regions found 
Their echoes 'midst the iiiountains ! — and become 
In man's deep heart as voices of his home ! 

They of the daring thought ! 
Daring and powerful, yet to dust allied — 
Whose flight through stars, and seas, and depths had sought 
The soul's fair birth place — but without a guide! 

Sages and seers, who died. 
And left the world their high mysterious dreams, 
Born 'midst the olive woods, by Grecian streams. 



^85) 

But the most loved are they 
Of whom fame speaks not with her clarion voice, 
In regal halls ! — the shades o'erhang their way, 
The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice, 

And gentle hearts rejoice 
Around their steps ; till silently they die, 
As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye. 

And these — of whose abode, 
'Midst her green valleys, earth retain'd no trace. 
Save a flower springing from their burial-sod, 
A shade of sadness on some kindred face, 

A dim* and vacant place 
In some sweet home; — thou hadst no wreaths for these^ 
Thou sunny land ! with all thy deathless trees ! 

The peasant at his door 
Might sink to die when vintage feasts were spread, 
And songs on every wind ! From thy bright shore 
No lovelier vision floated round his head — 

Thou wert for nobler dead ! 
He heard the bounding steps which round him fell. 
And sigh'd to bid the festal sun farewell ! 

The slave, whose very tears 
Were a forbidden luxury, and whose breast 
Kept the mute woes and burning thoughts of years, 
As embers in a burial-urn compress' d ; 

He might not be thy guest ! 
No gentle breathings from thy distant sky 
Came o'er his path, and whisper'd " Liberty !" 



(86) 

Calm, on its leaf-strewn bier, 
Unlike a gift of Nature to Decay, 
Too rose-like still, too beautiful, too dear. 
The child at rest before the mother lay, 

E'en so to pass away. 
With its bright smile ! — Elysium ! what wert thou 
To her, who wept o'er that young slumb'rer's brow ? 

Thou hadst no home, green land ! 
For the fair creature from her bosom gone, 
With life's fresh flowers just opening in its hand^ 
And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown 

Which, in its clear eye, shone 
Like spring's first wakening ! but that light was past - 
Where went the dew drop swept before the blast? 

Not where thy soft winds play'd. 
Not where thy waters lay in glassy sleep ! 
Fade with thy bowers, thou Land of Visions, fade ! 
From thee no voice came o'er the gloomy deep, 

And bade man cease to weep ! 
Fade, with the amaranth plain, the myrtle grove, 
Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing love. 



r-J 



(87) 



SADNESS AND xMIRTH. 

Ye met at the stately feasts of old, 
Where the bright wine foam'd over sculptured gold, 
Sadness and mirth ! ye were mingled there 
With the sound of the lyre in the scented air; 
As the cloud and the lightning are blent on high, 
Ye mixM in the gorgeous revelry. 

For there hung o'er those banquets of yore a gloom, 

A thought and a shadow of the tomb ; 

It gave to the flute-notes an under-tone, 

To the rose a colouring not its own. 

To the breath of the myrtle a mournful power — 

Sadness and mirth ! ye had each your dower ! 

Yet met when the triumph swept proudly by, 
With the Roman eagles through the sky ! 
I know that even then, in his hour of pride. 
The soul of the mighty within him died ; 
That a void in his bosom lay darkly still. 
Which the music of victory might never fill ! 

Thou wert there, oh, mirth ! swelling on the shout. 
Till the temples, like echo-caves, rang out: 
Thine were the garlands, the songs, the wine. 
All the rich voices in air were thine. 
The incense, the sunshine — but, sadness, thy part, 
Deepest of all, was the victor's heart ! 



Ye meet at the bridal with flower and tear ; 

Strangely and wildly ye meet by the bier ! 

As the gleam from a sea-bird's white wing shed. 

Crosses the storm in its path of dread ; 

As a dirge meets the breeze of a summer sky — 

Sadness and mirth ! so ye come and fly ! 

Ye meet in the poet's haunted breast. 

Darkness and rainbow, alike its guest ! 

When the breath of the violet is out in spring, 

When the woods with the wakening of music ring, 

O'er his dreamy spirit your currents pass, 

Like shadow and sunlight o'er mountain grass. 

When will your parting be, sadness and mirth ? 
Bright stream and dark one ! ' — oh ! never on earth ! 
Never while triumphs and tombs are so near, 
While death and love walk the same dim sphere. 
While flowers unfold where the storm may sweep. 
While the heart of man i^ a soundless deep ! 

But there smiles a land, oh ! ye troubled pair ! 
Where ye have no part in the summer air. 
Far from the breathings of changeful skies, 
Over the seas and the graves it lies 
Where the day of the lightning and cloud is done. 
And joy reigns alone, as the lonely sun ! 



-Tiird 



^ _ 




iM and migi 

mple sli 

he majet 

ims with a coloring of hero 

aich leads through arch mid m^k 



"n^-^ the 

araee that nob 

iacir heart's worship pu! r j n wt-aun ui 
>r be with the dead! - '""h- pc^^ile knee^ 
he helms of ant 

>.on glooui froiu banners thr- 
• 1 pale proud slun^^'^ 
;>)c;^ — The poop 



;ind prii^i 
dim processions of a ^i'^^^^j i^^ve e 



hou£[hts ! 



•T - 1. . 1 .- .1- 



(89) 



CATHEDRAL HYMN. 

A DIM and mighty minster of old time ! 
A temple shadowy with remembrances 
Of the majestic past! — the very light 
Streams with a coloring of heroic days 
In every ray, which leads through arch and aisle 
A path of dreamy lustre, wandering back 
To other years ; — and the rich fretted roof, 
And the wrought coronals of summer leaves, 
Ivy and vine, and m.any a sculptured rose — 
The tenderest image of mortality — * 
Binding the slender columns, whose light shafts 
Cluster like stems in corn-sheaves — all these things 
Tell of a race that nobly, fearlessly. 
On their heart's worship pour'd a wealth of love ! 
Honor be with the dead ! — The people kneel 
Under the helms of antique chivalry. 
And in the crimson gloom from banners thrown. 
And 'midst the forms, in pale proud slumber carved. 
Of warriors on their tombs. — The people kneel 
Where mail-clad chiefs have knelt ; where jewell'd crowns 
On the flush'd brows of conquerors have been set ; 
Where the high anthems of old victories 
Have made the dust give echoes. — Hence, vain thoughts ! 
Memories of power and pride, which, long ago 
Like dim processions of a dream, have sunk 
In twilight depths away. — Return, my soul ! 
The cross recalls thee. — Lo ! the blessed cross ! 

9* 



(90) 

High o'er the banners and the crests of earth, 

Fix'd in its meek and still supremacy ! 

And lo ! the throng of beating human hearts, 

With all their secret scrolls of buried grief, 

All their full treasures of immortal hope, 

Gather'd before their God! — Hark! how the flood 

Of the rich organ harmony bears up 

Their voice on its high waves ! — a mighty burst ! 

A forest-sounding music ! — every tone 

Which the blasts call forth with their harping wings 

From gulfs of tossing foliage there is blent : 

And the old minster — forest-like itself — 

With its long avenues of pillarM shade, 

Seems quivering all with spirit, as that strain 

O'erflows its dim recesses, leaving not 

One tomb unthrill'd by the strong sympathy 

Answering the electric notes. — Join, join, my soul I 

In thine own lowly, trembling consciousness, 

And thine own solitude, the glorious hymn. 

Rise like an altar-fire ! 

In solemn joy aspire. 
Deepening thy passion still, O choral strain 1 

On thy strong rushing wind 

Bear up from human kind 
Thanks and implorings — be they not in vain ! 

Father, which art on high ! 

Weak is the melody 
Of harp or song to reach thine awful ear. 

Unless the heart be there. 

Winging the words of prayer, 
With its own fervent faith or suppliant fear. 



(91) 

Let, then, thy spirit brood 

Over the multitude — 
Be thou amidst them through that heavenly Guest ! 

So shall their cry have power 

To win from thee a shower 
Of healing gifts for every wounded breast. 

What griefs that make no sign, 

That ask no aid but thine. 
Father of Mercies ! here before thee swell, 

As to the open sky, 

All their dark waters lie 
To thee reveal'd, in each close bosom cell. 

The sorrow for the dead 

Mantling its lonely head 
From the world's glare, is, in thy sight, set free ; 

And the fond, aching love 

Thy minister, to move 
All the wrung spirit, softening it for thee. 

And doth not thy dread eye 

Behold the agony 
In that most hidden chamber of the heart, 

Where darkly sits remorse, 

Beside the secret source 
Of fearful visions, keeping watch apart? 

Yes ! here before thy throne 

Many — yet each alone — 
To thee that terrible unveiling make ; 

And still small whispers clear 

Are startling many an ear, 
As if a trumpet bade the dead awake. 



(92) 

How dreadful is this place ! 

The glory of thy face 
Fills it too searchingly for mortal sight : 

Where shall the guilty flee? 

Over what far-off sea? 
What hills, what woods, may shroud him from that light ? 

Not to the cedar shade 

Let his vain flight be made ; 
Nor the old mountains, nor the desert sea ; 

What, but the cross, can yield 

The hope — the stay — the shield? 
Thence may the Atoner lead him up to Thee I 

Be thou, be thou his aid ! 

Oh ! let thy love pervade 
The haunted caves of self-accusing thought ! 

There let the living stone 

Be clefl; — the seed be sown — 
The song of fountains from the silence brought ! 

So shall thy breath once more 

Within the soul restore 
Thine own first image — Holiest and most High ! 

As a clear lake is fill'd 

AVith hues of Heaven, instill'd 
Down to the depths of its calm purity. 

And if, amidst the throng | 

Link'd by the ascending song, I 

There are, whose thoughts in trembling rapture soar ; 

Thanks, Father ! that the power 

Of joy, man's early dower, i 

Thus, e'en 'midst tears, can fervently adore ! I 



(93) 

Thanks for each gift divine ! 

Eternal praise be thine. 
Blessing and love, O Thou that hearest prayer ! 

Let the hymn pierce the sky, 

And let the tombs reply ! 
For seed, that waits thy harvest-time is there. 



GERTRUDE ; OR, FIDELITY TILL DEATH. 

Her hands were clasp' d, her dark eyes raised, 

The breeze threw back her hair ; 
Up to the fearful wheel she gazed — 

All that she loved was there. 
The night was round her clear and cold. 

The holy heaven above, 
Its pale stars watching to behold 

The might of earthly love. 

" And bid me not depart," she cried, 

" My Rudolph, say not so ! 
This is no time to quit thy side. 

Peace, peace ! I cannot go. 
Hath the world aught for me to fear. 

When death is on thy brow? 
The world ! what means it ? — mine is here — 

I will not leave thee now. 

" I have been with thee in thine hour 

Of glory and of bliss ; 
Doubt not its memory's living power 

To strengthen me through this ! 



(94) 

And thou mine honor' d love and true, 

Bear on, bear nobly on. 
We have the bless' d heaven in view, 

Whose rest shall soon be won." 

And were not these high words to flow 

From woman's breaking heart ? 
Through all that night of bitterest w^oe, 

She bore her lofty part ; 
But oh ! with such a glazing eye, 

With such a curdling cheek — 
Love, love ! of mortal agony. 

Thou, only thou shouldst speak ! 

The wind rose high, — but with it rose 

Her voice, that he might hear : 
Perchance that dark hour brought repose 

To happy bosoms near ; 
While she sat striving with despair 

Beside his tortured form. 
And pouring her deep soul in prayer 

Forth on the rushing storm. 

She wiped the death-damps from his brow. 

With her pale hands and soft. 
Whose touch upon the lute-chords low. 

Had still'd his heart so oft. 
She spread her mantle o'er his breast, 

She bathed his lips with dew. 
And on his cheeks such kisses press'd 

As hope and joy ne'er knew. 



(95) 

Oh ! lovely are ye, Love and Faith, 

Enduring to the last ! 
She had her meed — one smile in death — 

And his worn spirit pass'd. 
While e'en as o'er a martyr's grave 

She knelt on that sad spot, 
And, v^eeping, bless'd the God who gave 

Strength to forsake it not ! 



THE BRIDE OF THE GREEK ISLE. 

Come from the woods with the citron-flowers, 

Come with your lyres for the festal hours, 

Maids of bright Scio ! They came, and the breeze 

Bore their sweet songs o'er the Grecian seas ; — 

They came, and Eudora stood robed and crown'd, 

The bride of the morn, with her train around. 

Jewels flash' d out from her braided hair, 

Like starry dews 'midst the roses there ; 

Pearls on her bosom quivering shone, 

Heaved by her heart through its golden zone ; 

But a brow, as those gems of the ocean pale, 

Gleam' d from beneath her transparent veil ; 

Changeful and faint was her fair cheek's hue. 

Though clear as a flower which the light looks through ; 

And the glance of her dark resplendent eye. 

For the aspect of woman at times too high, 

Lay floating in mists, which the troubled stream 

Of the sd^l sent up o'er its fervid beam. 



(96) 

She look'd on the vine at her father's door, 

Like one that is leaving his native shore ; 

She hung o'er the myrtle once call'd her own, 

As it greenly waved by the threshold stone ; * 

She turn'd — and her mother's gaze brought back 

Each hue of her childhood's faded track. 

Oh ! hush the song, and let her tears 

Flow to the dream of her early years ! 

Holy and pure are the drops that fall 

When the young bride goes from her father's hall ; 

She goes unto love yet untried and new, 

She parts from love which hath still been true ; 

Mute be the song and the coral strain. 

Till her heart's deep and well-spring is near again ! 

She wept on her mother's faithful breast, 

Like a babe that sobs itself to rest ; 

She wept — yet laid her hand awhile 

In his that waited her dawning smile, 

Her soul's affianced, nor cherish'd less 

For the gush of nature's tenderness ! 

She lifted her graceful head at last — 

The choking swell ^f her heart was past ; 

And her lovely thoughts from their cells found way 

In the sudden flow of a plaintive lay. 



(97) 



THE PALM TREE. 

It waved not through an Eastern sky, 
Beside a fount of Araby ; 
It was not fann'd by southern breeze 
In some green Isle of Indian seas, 
Nor did its graceful shadow sleep 
O'er stream of Afric, lone and deep. 

But fair the exiled palm-tree grew 
Midst foliage of no kindred hue ; 
Through the laburnum's dropping gold 
Rose the light shaft of orient mould. 
And Europe's violets, faintly sweet. 
Purpled the moss-beds at its feet. 

Strange look'd it there! — the willow stream' d 
Where silvery waters near it gleam' d ; 
The lime-bough lured the honey-bee 
To murmur by the desert's tree. 
And showers of snowy roses made 
A lustre in its fan-like shade. 

There came an 3ve of festal hours — 
Rich music fill'd that garden's bowers ; 



(98) 

Lamps that from flowering branches hung, 
On sparks of dew soil colours flung, 
And bright forms glanced — a fairy show- 
Under the blossoms to and fro. 

But one, a lone one, midst the throng, 
Seem'd reckless of all dance or song : 
He was a youth of dusky mien. 
Whereon the Indian sun had been. 
Of crested brow, and long black hair — 
A stranger, like the palm-tree, there. 

And slowly, sadly, moved his plumes, 
Glittering athwart the leafy glooms ; 
He pass'd the pale green olives by, 
Nor won the chesnut - flowers his eye ; 
But when to that sole palm he came. 
Then shot a rapture through his frame ! 

To him, to him its rustling spoke, 

The silence of his soul it broke ! 

It whisper' d of his own bright isle. 

That lit the ocean with a smile ; 

Ay, to his ear that native tone 

Had something of the sea- wave's moan ! 

His mother's cabin home, that lay 
Where feathery cocoas fringed the bay ; 
The dashing of his brethren's oar. 
The conch-note heard along the shore ; — 
All through his wakening bosom swept. 
He clasp'd his country's tree and wept ! 



(99) 

Oh ! scorn him not ! — the strength whereby 

The patriot girds himself to die, 

The unconquerable power, which fills 

The freeman battling on his hills. 

These have one fountain deep and clear — 

The same whence gush'd the child-like tear! 



THE TRAVELLER AT THE SOURCE OF THE NILE. 

In sunset's light o'er Afric thrown, 

A wanderer proudly stood 
Beside the well-spring, deep and lone. 

Of Egypt's awful flood ; 
The cradle of that mighty birth. 
So long a hidden thing to earth. 

He heard its life's first murmuring sound, 

A low, mysterious tone ; 
A music sought, but never found 

By kings and warriors gone; 
He listen'd— and his heart beat high — 
That was the song of victory ! 

The rapture of a conqueror's mood 

Rush'd burning through his frame, 

The depths of that green solitude 
Its torrents could not tame, 

Though stillness lay, with eve's last smile, 

Round those calm fountains of the Nile, 



( 100 ) 

Nisht came with stars ; — across his soul 
There swept a sudden change, 

E'en at the pilgrim's glorious goal, 
A shadow dark and strange, 

Breathed forth the thought, so swift to fall 

O'er triumph's hour — And is this all 1 

No more than this ! — what seem'd it now 
First by that spring to stand ? 

A thousand streams of lovelier flow 
Bathed his own mountain land ! 

Whence, far o'er waste and ocean track. 

Their wild, sweet voices call'd him back. 

They call'd him back to many a glade, 
His childhood's haunt of play. 

Where brightly through the beechen shade 
Their waters glanced away ; 

They call'd him, with their sounding waves. 

Back to his father's hills and graves. 

But, darkly mingling with the thought 

Of each familiar scene. 
Rose up a fearful vision, fraught 

With all that lay between, — 
The Arab's lance, the desert's gloom. 
The whirling sands, the red simoon ! 

Where was the glow of power and pride ? 

The spirit born to roam? 
His weary heart within him died 

With yearnings for his home; 



( 101 ) 

All vainly struggling to repress 
That gush of painful tenderness. 

He vvept — the stars of Afric's heaven 

Beheld his bursting tears, 
E'en on that spot where fate had given 

The meed of toiling years. 
O happiness ! how far we flee 
Thine own sweet paths in search of thee ! 



MOZART'S REQUIEM. 

A REQUIEM ! — and for whom ? 

For beauty in its bloom? 
For valor fallen — a broken rose or sword? 

A dirge for king or chief, 

With pomp of stately grief, 
Banner, and torch, and waving plume deplored? 

Not so, it is not so ! 

That warning voice I know, 
From other worlds, a strange, mysterious tone ; 

A solemn funeral air 

It caird me to prepare. 
And my heart answer'd secretly — my own! 

One more then, one more strain, 

In links of joy and pain 
Mighty the troubled spirit to enthral ! 

And let me breathe my dower 

Of passion and of power 
Full into that deep lay — the last of all ! 



(102) 

The last ! — and I must go 

From this bright world below, 
This realm of sunshine, wringing with sweet sound ! 

Must leave its festal skies. 

With all their melodies, 
That ever in my breast glad echoes found ! 

Yet have I known it long; 

Too restless and too strong 
Within this clay hath been the o'ermastering flame; 

Swifl thoughts, that came and went, 

Like torrents o'er me sent. 
Have shaken, as a reed, my thrilling frame. 

Like perfumes on the wind. 

Which none may stay or bind. 
The beautiful comes floating through my soul ; 

I strive with yearnings vain. 

The spirit to detain 
Of the deep harmonies that past me roll ? 

Therefore disturbing dreams 

Trouble the secret streams 
And founts of music that o'erflow my breast ; 

Something far more divine 

Than may on earth be mine, 
Haunts my worn heart, and will not let me rest. 

Shall I then fear the tone 

That breathes from worlds unknown ? — 
Surely these feverish aspirations there 

Shall grasp their full desire, 

And this unsettled fire. 
Burn calmly, brightly, in immortal air. 



( 103 ) 

One more then, one more strain, 

To earthly joy and pain 
A rich, and deep, and passionate farewell ! 

I pour each fervent thought 

With fear, hope, trembling fraught, 
Into the notes that o'er my dust shall swell. 



ANCIENT BATTLE SONG. 

Fling forth the proud "banner of Leon again ! 

Let the high word " Castile /" go resounding through 

Spain ! 
And thou, free Asturias, encamp'd on the height, 
Pour down thy dark sons to the vintage of fight ! 
Wake, wake ! the old soil where thy children repose 
Sounds hollow and deep to the trampling of foes ! 

The voices are mighty that swell from the past. 

With Arragon's cry on the shrill mountain blast ; 

The ancient sierras give strength to our tread. 

Their pines murmur song where bright blood hath been 

shed. 
— Fling forth the proud banner of Leon again, 
And shout ye " Castile ! to the rescue for Spain !" 



(104) 



IF THOU HAST CRUSH'D A FLOWER. 

If thou hast crushM a flower, 

The root may not be blighted ; 
If thou hast quench' d a lamp, 

Once more it may be lighted ; 
But on thy harp or on thy lute, 

The string which thou hast broken. 
Shall never in sweet sound again 

Give to thy touch a token ! 

If thou hast loosed a bird 

Whose voice of song could cheer thee, 
Still, still he may be won 

From the skies to warble near thee : 
But if upon the troubled sea 

Thou hast thrown a gem unheeded, 
Hope not that wind or wave will bring 

The treasure back when needed. 

If thou has bruised a vine, 

The summer's breath is healing, 
And its clusters yet may glow 

Through the leaves their bloom revealing ; 
But if thou hast a cup o'erthrown 

With a bright draught fill'd — oh! never 
Shall earth give back that lavish'd wealth 

To cool thy parch'd lips' fever ! 



(105) 

The heart is like that cup. 

If thou waste the love it bore thee ,* 
And like that jewel gone, 

Which the deep will not restore thee ; 
And like that string of harp or lute 

Whence the sweet sound is scatter' d ; — 
Gently, oh ! gently touch the chords, 

So soon forever shatter' d. 



THE BRIDE'S FAREWELL. 
Why do I weep ? to leave the vine 

Whose clusters o'er me bend, — 
The myrtle — yet, oh ! call it mine ! — - 

The flowers I loved to tend. 
A thousand thoughts of all things dear 

Like shadows o'er me sweep, 
I leave my sunny childhood here, 

Oh, therefore, let me weep ! 

I leave thee, sister ! we have play'd 

Through many a joyous hour, 
Where the silvery green of the olive shade 

Hung dim o'er fount and bower. 
Yes, thou and I, by stream, by shore. 

In song, in prayer, in sleep. 
Have been as we may be no more — 

Kind sister, let me weep ! 

I leave thee, father ! Eve's bright moon 

Must now light other feet. 
With the gather' d grapes, and the lyre in tune 

Thy homeward step to greet. 



( 106 ) 

Thou in whose voice, to bless thy child, 

Lay tones of love so deep, 
Whose eye o'er all my youth hath smiled - 

I leave thee ! let me weep ! 

Mother ! I leave thee ! on thy breast, 

Pouring out joy and wo, 
I have found that holy place of rest 

Still changeless, — yet I go ! 
Lips, that have lull'd me wdth your strain, 

Eyes, that have watch' d my sleep : 
Will earth give love like yours again? 

Sweet mother ! let me weep ! 



THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. 

The stately homes of England, 

How beautiful they stand ! 
Amidst their tall ancestral trees, 

O'er all the pleasant land. 
The deer across their greensward bound, 

Through shade and sunny gleam. 
And the swan glides past them with the sound 

Of some rejoicing stream. 

The merry homes of England ! 

Around their hearths by night. 
What gladsome looks of household love 

Meet in the ruddy light! 



(107) 

There woman's voice flows forth in song. 

Or childhood's tale is told, 
Or lips move tunefully along 

Some glorious page of old. 

The blessed homes of England ! 

How softly on their bowers 
Is laid the holy quietness 

That breathes from Sabbath-hours 
Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime 

Floats through their woods at morn ; 
All other sounds, in that still time, 

Of breeze and leaf are born. 

The cottage homes of England ! 

By thousands on her plains, 
They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks. 

And round the hamlet-fanes. 
Through glowing orchards forth they i>eep. 

Each from its nook of leaves, 
And fearless there the lowly sleep, 

As the bird beneath their eaves. 

The free, fair homes of England ! 

Long, long, in hut and hall. 
May hearts of native proof be rear'd 

To guard each hallow' d wall ! 
And green for ever be the groves. 

And bright the flowery sod. 
Where first the child's glad spirit loves 

Its country and its God ! 



(108) 



THE HOUR OF DEATH. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath. 

And stars to set, — but all. 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! 

Day is for mortal care. 
Eve, for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, 

Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer,* 
But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth. 

The banquet hath its hour, 
Its feverish hour, of mirth, and song, and wine ; 

There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, 
A time for softer tears, — but all are thine. 

Youth and the opening rose 
May look like things too glorious for decay, 

And smile at thee — but thou art not of those 
That wait the ripen' d bloom to seize their prey. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath. 

And stars to set — but all 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! 

We know when moons shall wane, 
When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea. 

When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain — 
But who shall teach us when to look for thee? 



(109) 

Is it when spring's first gale 
Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? 

Is it when roses in our paths grow pale ? — 
They have one season — all are ours to die! 

Thou art where billows foam, 
Thou art where music melts upon the air ; 

Thou art around us in Qur peaceful home, 
And the world calls us forth — and thou art there. 

Thou art where friend meets friend. 
Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest — 

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend 
The skies, and swords beats down the princely crest. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, 

And stars to set — but all. 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, Death! 



THE CHILDE'S DESTINY. 

No mistress of the hidden skill, 

No wizard gaunt and grim. 
Went up by night to heath or hill, 

To read the stars for him ; 
The merriest girl in all the land 

Of vine-encircled France 
Bestow' d upon his brow and hand 

Her philosophic glance : 



10 



(110) 

"I bind thee with a spell," said she, 

" I sign thee with a sign ; 
No woman's love shall light on thee, 

No woman's heart be thine ! 

" And trust me, 'tis not that thy cheek 

Is colorless and cold. 
Nor that thine eye is slow to speak 

What only eyes have told ; 
For many a cheek of paler white 

Hath blush' d with passion's kiss ; 
And many an eye of lesser light 

Hath caught its fire from bliss; 
Yet while the rivers seek the sea. 

And while the young stars shine, 
No woman's love shall light on thee. 

No woman's heart be thine ! 

" And 'tis not that thy spirit, awed 

By beauty's numbing spell. 
Shrinks from the force or from the fraud 

Which beauty loves so well ; 
For thou hast learn'd to watch and wake, 

And swear by earth and sky ; 
And thou art very bold to take 

What we must still deny ; 
I cannot tell : the charm was wrought 

By other threads than mine, 
The lips are lightly begg'd or bought, 

The heart may not be thine! 

"Yet thine the brightest smile shall be 
That ever beauty wore, 



(Ill) 

And confidence from two or three, 
And compliments from more ; 

And one shall give, perchance hath given, 

What only is not love, — 
Friendship, oh ! such as saints in heaven 

Rain on us from above. 
If she shall meet thee in the bower. 

Or name thee in the shrine, 
Oh ! wear the ring, and guard the flower, - 

Her heart may not be thine ! 

" Go, set thy boat before the blast, 

Thy breast before the gun, — 
The haven shall be reach' d at last. 

The battle shall be won ; 
Or muse upon thy country's laws. 

Or strike thy country's lute. 
And patriot hands shall sound applause, 

And lovely lips be mute : 
Go, dig the diamond from the wave. 

The treasure from the mine. 
Enjoy the wreath, the gold, the grave, — 

No woman's heart is thine ! 

" I charm thee from the agony 

Which others feel or feign ; 
From anger, and from jealousy. 

From doubt, and from disdain ; 
I bid thee wear the scorn of years 

Upon the cheek of youth. 
And curl the lip at passion's tears. 

And shake the head at truth : 



( 112 ) 

While there is bliss in revelry, 

Forgetfulness in wine, 
Be thou from woman's love as free 

As woman is from thine !" 



THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 

The breaking waves dash'd high 

On a stern and rock-bound coast, 
And the woods, against a stormy sky, 

Their giant branches toss'd; 

And the heavy night hung dark 

The hills and w^aters o'er, 
When a band of exiles moor'd their bark 

On the wild New England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes. 

They, the true-hearted, came, 
Not with the roll of the stirring drums, 

And the trumpet that sings of fame ; ^ 

Not as the flying come, 

In silence and in fear, — 
They shook the depths of the desert's gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang. 

And the stars heard and the sea! 
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 

To the anthem of the free ! 



(113) 

The ocean-eagle soar'd 

From his nest by the white wave's foam, 
And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd — 

This was their welcome home ! 

There were men with hoary hair 

Amidst that pilgrim-band — 
Why had they come to wither there 

Away from their childhood's land? 

There was woman's fearless eye, 

Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
There was manhood's brow, serenely high, 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar? 

Bright jewels of the mine ? 
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ? — 

They sought a faith's pure shrine ! 

Aye, call it holy ground. 

The soil where first they trod ! 
They have left unstain'd what there they found — 

Freedom to worship God! 



10* 



(116) 

Flowers are upon thy brow ; for so the dead 

Were crown'd of old, with pale spring flowers like these: 

Sleep on thine eye hath sunk ; yet softly shed, 

As from the wing of some faint southern breeze : 

And the pine-boughs o'ershadow thee with gloom 

Which of the grove seems breathing — not the tomb. 

They fear'd not death, whose calm and gracious thought 

Of the last hour, hath settled thus in thee ! 

They w^ho thy wreath and pallid roses wrought, 

And laid thy head against the forest tree, 

As that of one, by music's dreamy close. 

On the wood- violets luli'd to deep repose. 

They fear'd not death! — yet who shall say his touch 

Thus lightly falls on gentle things and fair ? 

Doth he bestow, or will he leave so much 

Of tender beauty as thy features wear ? 

Thou sleeper of the bower ! on whose young eyes 

So still a night, a night of summer, lies ! 

Had they seen aught like thee? — Did some fair boy 
Thus, with his graceful hair, before them rest ? 
— His graceful hair, no more to wave in jov. 
But drooping, as with heavy dews oppress' d : 
And his eye veil'd so softly by its fringe. 
And his lip faded to the white-rose tinge ! 

Oh ? happy, if to them the one dread hour 
Made known its lessons from a brow like thine ! 
If all their knowledge of the spoiler's power 
Came by a look so tranquilly divine ! 



(117) 

— Let him, who thus hath seen the lovely part, 
Hold well that image to his thoughtful heart ! 

But thou, fair slumberer ! was there less of woe, 

Or love, or terror, in the days, of old. 

That men pour'd out their gladdening spirit's flow. 

Like sunshine, on the desolate and cold,' 

And gave thy semblance to the shadowy king, 

Who for deep souls had then a deeper sting ? 

In the dark bosom of the earth they laid 
Far more than we — for loftier faith is ours ! 
Their gems were lost in ashes — yet they made 
The grave a place of beauty and of flowers, 
With fragrant wreaths, and summer boughs array' d 
And lovely sculpture gleaming through the shade. 

It is for us a darker gloom to shed 
O'er its dim precincts 1 — do we not intrust 
But for a time, its chambers with our dead. 
And strew immortal seed upon the dust ? 

— W^hy should ive dwell on that which lies beneath 
When living light hath touch' d the brow of death? 



(118) 



HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN. 

The bark that held a prince went down, 

The sweeping waves roll'd on; 
And what was England's glorious crown 

To him that wept a son ? 
He lived — for life may long be borne 

Ere sorrow break its chain ; 
Why comes not death for those who mourn ?- 

He never smiled again ! 

There stood proud forms around his throne, 

The stately and the brave ; 
But which could fill the place of one, 

That one beneath the wave ? 
Before him pass'd the young and fair, 

In pleasure's reckless train ; 
But seas dash'd o'er his son's bright hair — 

He never smiled again ! 

He sat where festal bowls went round, 

He heard the minstrel sing. 
He saw the tourney's victor crown' d, 

Amidst the knightly ring : 
A murmur of the restless deep 

Was blent with every strain, 
A voice of winds that would not sleep — 

He never smiled again. 



( 119) 

Hearts, in that time, closed o'er the trace 

Of vows once fondly pour'd, 
And stranger's took the kinsman's place 

At many a joyous board ; 
Graves, which true love had bathed with tears, 

Were left to heaven's bright rain, 
Fresh hopes were born for other years — 

He never smiled a^ain ! 



THE VOICE OF SPRING. 

I COME, I come ! ye have call'd me long, 
I come o'er the mountains with light and song ! 
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth. 
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth. 
By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass, 
By the green leaves, opening as I pass. 

I have breathed on the south, and the chestnut flowers 
By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers. 
And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes. 
Are veil'd with wreaths on Italian plains ; — 
But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom. 
To speak of the ruin or the tomb ! 

I have look'd o'er the hills of the stormy north. 
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth. 



(120) 

The fisher is out on the sunny sea, 

And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free, 

And the pine has a fringe of softer green, 

And the moss looks bright, where my foot hath been. 

I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh. 
And call'd out each voice of the deep blue sky; 
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time. 
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime. 
To the swan's wild note, by the Iceland lakes. 
When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks. 

From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain, 
They are sweeping on to the silvery main. 
They are flashing down from the mountain brows. 
They are flinging spray o'er the forest-boughs. 
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, 
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves ! 

Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come! 
Where the violets lie may be now your home. 
Ye of the rose lip and dew-bright eye. 
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly ! 
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay. 
Come forth to the sunshine, I may not stay. 

Away from the dwellings of care-worn men. 
The waters are sparkling in grove and glen ! 
Away from the chamber and sullen hearth. 
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth ! 
Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains. 
And youth is abroad in my green domains. 



(121) 

But ye ! — ye are changed since ye met me last ! 
There is something bright from your features pass'd ! 
There is that come over your brow and eye, 
Which speaks of a world where the flowers must die ! 
— Ye smile ! but your smile hath a dimness yet — 
Oh! what have you look'd on since last we met? 

Ye are changed, ye are changed ! — and I see not here 
All whom I saw in the vanish' d year ! 
There were graceful heads, with their ringlets bright, 
Which toss'd in the breeze with a play of light, 
There were eyes, in whose glistening laughter lay 
No faint remembrance of dull decay ! 

There were steps that flew o'er the cowslip's head, 

As if for a banquet all earth were spread ; 

There were voices that rung through the sapphire sky. 

And had not a sound of mortality ! 

Are they gone? is their mirth from the mountains pass'd ?- 

Ye have look'd on death since ye met me last ! 

I know whence the shadow comes o'er you now, 
Ye have strewn the dust on the sunny brow ! 
Ye have given the lovely to earth's embrace — 
She hath taken the fairest of beauty's race. 
With their laughing eyes and their festal crown, 
They are gone from amongst you in silence down ! 

They are gone from amongst you, the young and fair. 
Ye have lost the gleam of their shining hair ! — 
But I know of a land where there falls no blight, 
I shall find them there, with their eyes of light ! 

11 



(122) 

Where Death 'midst the blooms of the morn may dwell, 
I tarry no longer — farewell, farewell ! 

The summer is coming, on soil winds borne, 

Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn ! 

For me, I depart to a brighter shore. 

Ye are mark'd by care, ye are mine no more ; 

I go where the loved who have lefl you dwell. 

And the flowers are not Death's — fare ye well, farewell ! 



THE FAREWELL T^THE DEAD. 

Come near ! — ere yet the dust 
Soil the bright paleness of the settled brow. 
Look on your brother ; and embrace him now. 

In still and solemn trust ! 
Come near! — once more let kindred lips be press' d 
On his cold cheek ; then bear him to his rest ! 

Look yet on this young face ! 
What shall the beauty, from amongst us gone. 
Leave of its image, even where most it shone. 

Gladdening its hearth and race ? 
Dim grows the semblance on man's heart impress'd- 
Come near, and bear the beautiful to rest ! 

Ye weep, and it is well ! 
For tears befit earth's partings ! — Yesterday, 
Song was upon the lips of this pale clay. 

And sunshine seem'd to dwell 



(123) 

Where'er he moved — the welcome and the bless' d — 
Now gaze ! and bear the silent unto rest ! 

Look yet on him whose eye 
Meets yours no more, in sadness or in mirth ! 
Was he not fair amidst the sons of earth, 

The beings born to die ? — 
But not where death has power may love be bless' d — 

Come near ! and bear ye the beloved to rest ! 

• 

How may the mother's heart 
Dwell on her son, and dare to hope again? 
The Spring's rich promise hath been given in vain, 

The lovely must depart ! 
Is he not gone, our brightest and our best? 
Come near ! and bear the early-call'd to rest ! 

Look on him ! is he laid 
To slumber from the harvest or the chase? — 
Too still and sad the smile upon his face ; 

Yet that, even that must fade ! 
Death holds not long unchanged his fairest guest ! — 
Come near ! and bear the mortal to his rest ! 

His voice of mirth hath ceased 
Amidst the vineyards ! there is left no place 
For him whose dust receives your vain embrace. 

At the gay bridal feast ! 
Earth must take earth to moulder on her breast ; 
Come near ! weep o'er him ! bear him to his rest ! 



(124) 

Yet mourn ye not as they 
Whose spirit's light is quench' d — for him the past 
Is seal'd. He may not fall, he may not cast 

His birthright's hope away ! 
All is not here of our beloved and bless'd — 
Leave ye the sleeper with his God to rest ! 



BRIx^G FLOWERS. 

Bring flowers, young flowers, for the festal board. 

To wreath the cup ere the wine is pour'd : 

Bring flowers ! they are springing in wood and vale : 

Their breath floats out on the southern gale ; 

And the torch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose, 

To deck the hall where the bright wine flows. 

Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's path — 
He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath ! 
He comes with the spoils of nations back, 
The vines lie crush'd in his chariot's track, 
The turf looks red where he won the day — 
Bring flowers to die in the conqueror's way ! 

Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell. 
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell ; 
Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky, 
And the bright world shut from his languid eye 



(125) 

They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours, 
And the dream of his youth — bring him flowers, wild 
flowers .' 

Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear ! 
They were born to blush in her shining hair. 
She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth, 
She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth, 
Her place is now by another's side — 

Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride ! 

i 

i Bring flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to shed, 

j A crown for the brow of the early dead ! 
For this through it leaves hath the white rose burst. 
For this in the woods was the violet nursed ! 
Though they smile in vain for what once was ours. 
They are love's last gift — bring ye flowers, pale flowers ! 

Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer. 

They are nature's offering, their place is there I 

They speak of hope to the fainting heart. 

With a voice of promise they come and part 

They sleep in dust through the wintry hours. 

They break forth in glory — bring flowers, bright flowers ! 



(126) 



THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP. 

What hidest thou in thy treasure-caves and cells ? 

Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main ! — 
Pale glistering pearls, and rainbow-color' d shells, 

Bright things which gleam un wreck' d of and in vain ! — 
Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea ! 

We ask not such from thee. 

Yet more, the depths have more ! — what wealth untold, 
Far down, and shining through their stillness lies ! 

Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold, 
Won from ten thousand royal Argosies ! — 

Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main ! 
Earth claims not these again. 

Yet more, the depths have more! — thy waves have roll'd 

Above the cities of a world gone by ! 
Sand hath fill'd up the palaces of old. 

Sea-weeds o'ergrown the halls of revelry. — 
Dash o'er them, ocean ! in thy scornful play ! 
Man yields them to decay. 

Yet more ! the billows and the depths have more ! 

High hearts and brave are gather' d to thy breast ! 
They hear but now the booming waters roar. 

The battle-thunders will not break their rest. — 
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave ! 
Give back the true and brave ! 



(127) 

Give back the lost and lovely ! — those for whom 
The place was kept at board and hearth so long ! 

The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom, 
And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song ! 

Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown — 
But all is not thine ow^n. 

To thee the love of woman hath gone down, 
Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head. 

O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown; 
Yet must thou hear a voice — Restore the dead 1 

Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee ! — 
Restore the dead, thou sea ! 



THE REVELLERS. 

Ring, joyous chords ! — ring out again ! 

A swifter still, and a wilder strain ! 

They are here — the fair face and the careless heart, 

And stars shall wane ere the mirthful part. — 

But I met a dimly mournful glance, 

In a sudden turn of the flying dance ; 

I heard the tone of a heavy sigh 

In a pause of the thrilling melody ! 

And it is not well that woe should breathe 

On the bright spring flowers of the festal wreath ! — 

Ye that to thought or to grief belong. 

Leave, leave the hall of song ! 



(128) 

Ring, joyous chords ! — but who art thou 
AVith the shadowy locks o'er thy pale, young brow, 
And the world of dreamy gloom that lies 
In the misty depths of thy soft dark eyes? 
Thou hast loved, fair girl ! thou hast loved too well 
Thou art mourning now o'er a broken spell ; 
Thou hast pour'd thy heart's rich treasures forth, 
And art unrepaid for their priceless worth ! 
Mourn on ! — yet come thou not here the while, 
It is but a pain to see thee smile ! 
There is not a tone in our songs for thee — 
Home with thy sorrows flee ! 

Ring, joyous chords! — ring out again! — 
But what dost thou with the revel's train ? 
A silvery voice through the soft air floats, 
But thou hast no part in the gladd'ning notes ; 
There are bright young faces that pass thee by. 
But they fix no glance of thy wandering eye ! 
Away, there's a void in thy j^earning breast, 
Thou weary man ! wilt thou here find rest ? 
Away ! for thy thoughts from the scene have fled, 
And the love of thy spirit is with the dead ! 
Thou art but more lone 'midst the sounds of mirth. 
Back to thy silent hearth ! 

Ring, joyous chords! — ring forth again I 

A swifter still, and a wilder strain ! — 

But thou^ though a reckless mien be thine. 

And thy cup be crown' d with the foaming wine. 

By the fitful bursts of thy laughter loud. 

By thine eye's quick flash through its troubled cloud. 



( 129 ; 

I know thee ! it is but the wakeful fear 
Of a haunted bosom that brings thee here ! 
I know thee ! — thou fearest the solemn night, 
With her piercing stars and her deep wind's might ! 
There's a tone in her voice which thou fain wouldst shun, 
For it asks what the secret soul hath done ! 
And thou — there's a dark weight on thine — away ! — 
Back to thy home, and pray ! 

Ring, joyous chords ! — ring out again ! 
A swifter still, and a wilder strain ! 
And bring fresh wreaths ! — we will banish all 
Save the free in heart from our festive hall. 
On ! through the maze of the fleeting dance, on ! — 
But where are the young and the lovely ? — gone ! 
Where are the brows with the Red Cross crown'd, 
And the floating forms with the bright zone bound ? 
And the waving locks and the flying feet, 
That still should be where the mirthful meet ? 
They are gone — they are fled — they are parted all — 
Alas ! the forsaken hall ! 



(130) 



THE SONGS OF OUR FATHERS. 

Sing them upon the sunny hills, 

When days are long and bright, 
And the blue gleam of shining rills 

Is loveliest to the sight ! 
Sing them along the misty moor, 

Where ancient hunters roved. 
And swell them through the torrent's roar, 

The songs our fathers loved ! 

The songs their souls rejoiced to hear 

When harps were in the hall, 
And each proud note made lance and spear 

Thrill on the banner' d wall : 
The songs that through our valleys green. 

Sent on from age to age. 
Like his own river's voice, have been 

The peasant's heritage. 

The reaper sings them when the vale 

Is fill'd with plumy sheaves ; 
The woodman, by the starlight pale, 

Cheer'd homeward through the leaves : 
And unto them the glancing oars 

A joyous measure keep, 
Where the dark rocks that crest our shores 

Dash back the foaming deep 



(131) 

So let it be ! — a light they shed 

O'er each old fount and grove ; 
A memory of the gentle dead, 

A lingering spell of love. 
Murmuring the names of mighty men. 

They bid our streams roll on, 
And link high thoughts to every glen 

Where valiant deeds were done. 

Teach them your children round the hearth, 

When evening fires burn clear, 
And in the fields of harvest mirth, 

And on the hills of deer : 
So shall each unforgotten word. 

When far those loved ones roam, 
Call back the hearts which once it stirr'd. 

To childhood's holy home. 

The green woods of their native land 

Shall whisper in the strain, 
The voices in thy household band 

Shall breathe their names again ; 
The heathery heights in vision rise 

Where, like the stag, they roved — 
Sing to your sons those melodies, 

The songs your fathers loved ! 



(132) 



KINDRED HEARTS. 

Oh ! ask not, hope thou not too much 

Of sympathy below ; 
Few are the hearts whence one same touch 

Bids the sweet fountains flow : 
Few — and by still conflicting powers 

Forbidden here to meet — 
Such ties would make this life of ours 

Too fair for aught so fleet. 

It may be, that thy brother's eye 

Sees not as thine, which turns 
In such deep reverence to the sky, 

Where the rich sunset burns : 
It may be, that the breath of spring. 

Born amidst violets lone, 
A rapture o'er thy soul can bring — 

A dream, to him unknown. 

The tune that speaks of other times — 

A sorrowful delight ! 
The melody of distant chimes, 

The sound of waves by night, 
The wind that, with so many a tone, 

Some chord within can thrill, — 
These may have language all thine own. 

To him a mystery still. 



(133) 

Yet scorn thou not, for this, the true 

And steadfast love of years ; 
The kindly, that from childhood grew, 

The faithful to thy tears ! 
If there be one that o'er the dead 

Hath in thy grief borne part. 
And watch'd through sickness by thy bed,- 

Call his a kindred heart ! 

But for those bonds all perfect made, 

Wherein bright spirits blend, 
Like sister flowers of one sweet shade, 

With the same breeze that bend. 
For that full bliss of thought allied, 

Never to mortals given, — 
Oh ! lay thy lovely dreams aside, 

Or lift them unto Heaven, 



THE WRECK. 

All night the booming minute-gun, 

Had peaPd along the deep. 
And mournfully the rising sun 

Look'd o'er the tide-worn steep. 
A barque fi^om India's coral strand. 

Before the raging blast, 
Had veil'd her topsails to the sand. 

And bow'd her noble mast. 

12 



( 134 ) 

The queenly ship ! — brave hearts had striven, 

And true ones died with her ! — 
We saw her mighty cable riven, 

Like floating gossamer. 
We saw her proud flag struck that morn, 

A star once o'er the seas — 
Her anchor gone, her deck uptorn — 

And sadder things than these ! 

We saw her treasures cast away, — 

The rocks with pearls were sown, 
And strangely sad, the ruby's ray 

Flash' d out o'er fretted stone. 
And gold was strewn the wet sands o'er, 

Like ashes by a breeze ; 
And goro;eous robes — but oh ! that shore 

Had sadder things than these ! 

We saw the strong man still and low, 

A crush' d reed thrown aside ; 
Yet, by that rigid lip and brow. 

Not without strife he died. 
And near him on the sea-weed lay — 

Till then we had not wept — 
But well our gushing hearts might say 

That there a mother slept ! 

For her pale arms a babe had press' d 

With such a wreathing grasp. 
Billows had dash'd o'er that fond breast, 

Yet not undone the clasp. 



(135) 

Her very tresses had been flung 
To wrap the fair child's form, 

Where still their wet long streamers hung 
All tangled by the storm. 

And beautiful, 'midst that wild scene. 

Gleam' d up the boy's dead face, 
Like slumber's, trustingly serene, 

In melancholy grace. 
Deep in her bosom lay his head. 

With half-shut violet-eye — 
He had known little of her dread, 

Nought of her agony ! 

Oh ! human love, whose yearning heart 

Through all things vainly true, 
So stamps upon the mortal part 

Its passionate adieu — 
Surely thou hast another lot : 

There is some home for thee, 
Where thou shalt rest, rememb'ring not 

The moanincr of the sea ! 



(136) 



THE LOST PLEIAD. 

And is there glory from the heavens departed? — 
O void unmark'd ! — thy sisters of the sky 
Still hold their place on high. 

Though from its rank thine orb so long hath started. 
Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye ! 

Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night ? 

She wears her crown of old magnificence. 
Though thou art exiled thence — 
INTo desert seems to part those urns of light, 

'Midst the far depths of purple gloom intense. 

They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning — 
The shepherd greets them on his mountains free ; 
And from the silvery sea 

To them the sailor's wakeful eye is turning — 

Unchanged they rise, they have not mourned for thee. 

Couldst thou be shaken fi'om thy radiant place, 
Even as a dew-drop from the myrtle spray, 
Swept by the wind away ? 

Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race, 
And was there power to smite them with decay ? 

Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven? — 
Bow'd be our hearts to think on what we are, 
When from its height afar 

A world sinks thus — and yon majestic heaven 
Shines not the less for that one vanish'd star ! 



(137) 



THE GRAVES OF MARTYRS. 

The kings of old have shrine and tomb 
In many a minster's haughty gloom ; 
And green, along the ocean side, 
The mounds rise where heroes died ; 
But show me, on thy flowery breast. 
Earth ! where thy nameless martyrs rest ! 

The thousands that, uncheer'd by praise, 
Have made one offering of their days ; 
For Truth, for Heaven, for Freedom's sake. 
Resign' d the bitter cup to take : 
And silently, in fearless faith. 
Bowing their noble souls to death. 

Where sleep they. Earth ? — by no proud stone 

Their narrow couch of rest is known ; 

The still sad glory of their name 

Hallows no mountain unto Fame ; 

No — not a tree the record bears 

Of their deep thoughts and lonely prayers. 

Yet haply all around lie strew' d 

The ashes of that multitude : 

It may be that each day we tread, 

Where thus devoted hearts have bled ; 

And the young flowers our children sow, 

Take root in holy dust below. 

12* 



(13S) 

O that the many-rustling leaves. 

Which round our homes the summer weaves, 

Or that the streams, in whose glad voice 

Our own familiar paths rejoice. 

Might whisper through the starry sky, 

To tell where those blest slumberers lie ! 



Would not our inmost hearts be still' d, 
With knowledge of their presence fill'd, 
And by its breathings taught to prize 
The meekness of self-sacrifice ? 
— But the old woods and sounding waves 
Are silent of those hidden graves. 

Yet what if no light footstep there 
In pilgrim-love and awe repair, 
So let it be ! — like him, whose clay 
Deep buried by his Maker lay, 
They sleep in secret, — but their sod, 
Unknown to man, is mark'd of God ! 



(139) 



THE HOUR OF PRAYER. 

Child, amidst the flowers at play, 
While the red light fades away ; 
Mother, with thine earnest eye. 
Ever following silently ; 
Father, by the breeze of eve 
Call'd thy harvest work to leave — 
Pray : ere yet the dark hours be. 
Lift the heart and bend the knee ! 

Traveller, in the stranger's land, 
Far from thine own household band ; 
Mourner, haunted by the tone 
Of a voice from this world gone ; 
Captive, in whose narrow cell 
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell ; 
Sailor, on the darkening sea ! 
Lift the heart and bend the knee ! 

Warrior, that from battle won 
Breathest now at set of sun ; 
Woman, o'er the lowly slain 
Weeping on his burial-plain ; 
Ye that triumph, ye that sigh, 
Kindred by one holy tie. 
Heaven's first star alike ye see — 
Lift the heart and bend the knee I 



(140) 



THE DYING IMPROVISATOIRE. 

TiiE spirit of my land, 
It visits me once more ! — though I must die 
Far from the myrtles which thy breeze hath fann'd, 

My own bright Italy ! 

It is, it is thy breath. 
Which stirs my soul e'en yet, as wavering flame 
Is shaken by the wind ; — in life and death 

Still trembling, yet the same ! 

Oh ! that love's quenchless power 
Might waft my voice to fill thy summer sky. 
And through thy groves its dying music shower 

Italy! Italy! 

The nightingale is there. 
The sunbeam's glow, the citron-flower's perfume, 
The south wind's whisper in the scented air — 

It will not pierce the tomb ! 

Never, oh ! never more. 
On my Rome's purple heaven mine eye shall dwell 
Or watch the bright waves melt along thy shore — 

My Italy ! farewell ! 

Alas ! — thy hills among, 
Had I but left a memory of my name. 
Of love and grief one deep, true, fervent song. 

Unto immortal fame ! 



(141) 

But like a lute's brief tone, 
Like a rose-odor on the breezes cast. 
Like a swifl flush of dayspring, seen and gone. 

So hath my spirit pass'd — 

Pouring itself away 
As a wild bird amidst the foliage turns 
That which within him triumphs, beats, or burns, 

Into a fleeting lay ; 

That swells, and floats, and dies, 
Leaving no echo to the summer woods 
Of the rich breathings and impassion' d sighs 

Which thrill'd their solitudes. 

Yet, yet remember me ! 
Friends ! that upon its murmurs oft have hung. 
When from my bosom, joyously and free. 

The fiery fountain sprung. 

Under the dark rich blue 
Of midnight heavens, and on the star-lit sea, 
And v/hen woods kindle into Spring's first hue. 

Sweet friends ! remember me ! 

And in the marble halls. 
Where life's full glow the dreams of beauty wear. 
And poet-thoughts embodied light the walls. 

Let me be with you there ! 

Fain would I bind, for you. 
My memory with all glorious things to dwell ; 
Fain bid all lovely sounds my name renew — 

Sweet friends ! brio^ht land ! farewell ! 



(142) 



THE BOON OF MEMORY. 

I GO, I go ! — and must mine niiage fade 

From the green spots wherein my childhood play'd, 

By my own streams I 
Must my life part from each familiar place, 
As a bird's song, that leaves the woods no trace 

Of its lone themes ? 

Will the friend pass my dwelling, and forget 
The welcomes there, the hours when we have met 

In grief or glee ? 
Ail the sweet counsel, the communion high. 
The kindly words of trust in days gone by, 

Pour'd full and free ? 

A boon, a talisman, O Memory ! give. 

To shrine my name in hearts where I would live 

For evermore ! 
Bid the wind speak of me where I have dwelt, 
Bid the stream's voice, of all my soul hath felt, 

A thought restore ! 

In the rich rose, whose bloom I loved so well, 
In the dim brooding violet of the dell, 

Set deep that thought ! 
And let the sunset's melancholy glow. 
And let the Spring's first whisper, faint and low. 

With me be frauf>;ht ! 



(143) 

And memory answer'd me: — ^* Wild wish and vain! 

I have no hues the loveliest to detain 

In the heart's core. 

The place they held in bosoms all their own. 

Soon with new shadows fiU'd, new flowers o'ergrown, 
Is theirs no more." 

Hast thou such power, O Love? — And love replied, 
" It is not mine ! Pour out thy soul's full tide 

Of hope and trust. 
Prayer, tear, devotedness, that boon to gain — 
Tis but to write with the heart's fiery rain. 

Wild w^ords on dust !" 

Song, is the gifl with thee? — I ask a lay, 
Soft, fervent, deep, that will not pass away 

From the still breast ; 
Fill'd with a tone — oh! not for deathless fame. 
But a sweet haunting murmur of my name, 

Where it would rest. 

And Song made answer — ''It is not in me, 
Though call'd immortal ; though my gifts may be 

All but divine. 
A place of lonely brightness I can give : 
A changeless one, where thou with Love wouldst live — 

This is not mine !" 

Death, Death ! wilt thou the restless wish fulfil ? 
And Death, the Strong One, spoke : — "I can but still 
Each vain regret. 



(144) 

What if forgotten ? — All thy soul would crave, 
Thou too, within the mantle of the grave. 
Wilt soon forget." 

Then did my heart in lone faint sadness die. 
As from all nature's voices one reply. 

But one — was given. 
" Earth has no heart, fond dreamer ! with a tone 
To send thee back the spirit of thine own — 

Seek it in Heaven." 



THE CAMBRIAN IN AMERICA. 

When the last flush of eve is dying 

On boundless lakes, afar that shine ; 
When winds amidst the palms are sighing, 

And fragrance breathes from every pine : 
When stars through cypress-boughs are gleaming, 

And fireflies wander bright and free. 
Still of thy harps, thy mountains dreaming, 

My thoughts, wild Cambria ! dwell with thee ! 

Alone o'er green savannas roving, 

Where some broad stream in silence flows. 
Or through the eternal forest moving, 

One only home my spirit knows ! 
Sweet land, whence memory ne'er hath parted ! 

To thee on sleep's light wing I fly ; 
But happier, could the weary hearted 

Look on his own blue hills, and die ! 



iS back u^u ine, with a torrent's power, 
jre's der^^' >> ,.^,~... . i-.r. \ /-.. — ,• 

•"rein to 



voice, to 

-.»;] fT.^^ ^-.,. 



at Inciids ! it ii 

a in this moment, »w...i j^-ux a= . r :. 
::^les its cadende while you speak of 
me, your soldier, tmidst' the mountair 
the red banner of his battles dying, 
. far away! — and ob ' -"- ^.c.ru, 
not his nair>f> lie f 



aiiu iove a UiOUc^u;;d ibid b. 

i's last .earthly breathings ! -— 

:«.? for you ever! --May no wint< 



(145) 



THE SOLDIER'S DEATH-BED. 

Like thee to die, thou sun ! — My boyhood's dream 

Was this ; and now my spirit, with thy beam, 

Ebbs from a field of victory ! — yet the hour 

Bears back upon me, with a torrent's power, 

Nature's deep longings : — Oh ! for some kind eye, 

Wherein to meet love's fervent farewell gaze ; 

Some breast to pillow life's last agony, 

Some voice, to speak of hope and brighter days, 

Beyond the pass of shadows ! — But I go, 

I, that have been so loved, go hence alone ; 

And ye, now gathering round my own hearth's glow. 

Sweet friends ! it may be that a softer tone. 

Even in this moment, with your laughing glee. 

Mingles its cadence while you speak of me : 

Of me, your soldier, 'midst the mountains lying. 

On the red banner of his battles dying, 

Far, far away ! — and oh I your parting prayer — 

Will not his name be fondly murmur' d there ? 

It will ! — A blessing on that holy hearth ! 

Though clouds are darkening to o'ercast its mirth. 

Mother ! I may not hear th^ voice again ; 

Sisters ! ye watch to greet my step in vain ; 

Young brother, fare thee well ! — on each dear head 

Blessing and love a thousand fold be shed. 

My soul's last earthly breathings ! — May your home 

Smile for you ever ! — May no winter come, 

13 



(146) 

No rcorld, between your hearts ! — ]\Iay even your tears 

For my sake, full of long-remember' d years. 

Quicken the true affections that entwine 

Your lives in one bright bond ! — I may not sleep 

Amidst our fathers, where those tears might shine 

Over my slumbers : yet your love will keep 

My memory living in the ancestral halls. 

Where shame hath never trod: — the dark night falls, 

And I depart. — The brave are gone to rest, 

The brothers of my combats^ on the breast 

Of the red field they reap'd : — their work is done — 

Thou, too, art set ! — farewell, farewell, thou sun ! 

The last lone watcher of the bloody sod. 

Offers a trusting spirit up to God. 



TO MY OWN PORTRAIT. 

How is it that before mine eyes, 

W^hile gazing on thy mien, 
All my past years of life arise. 

As in a mirror seen ? 
What spell within thee hath been shrined. 
To image back my own deep mind 1 

Even as a song of other times 
Can trouble memory's springs ; 

Even as a sound of vesper-chimes 
Can wake departed things 

Even as a scent of vernal flowers 

Hath records fraught with vanish' d hours ; - 



(147) 

Such power is thine ! — they come, the dead, 

From the grave's bondage free. 
And smiling back the changed are led, 

To look in love on thee ; 
And voices that are music flown 
Speak to me in the heart's full tone : 

Till crowding thoughts my soul oppress — 

The thoughts of happier years, 
And a vain gush of tenderness 

O'erflows in child-like tears ; 
A passion which I may not stay, 
A sudden fount that must have way. 

But thou, the while — oh ! almost strange, 

Mine imaged self! it seems 
That on thy brow of peace no change 

Reflects my own swdfl dreams ; 
Almost I marvel not to trace 
Those lights and shadows in thy face. 

To see thee calm, while powers thus deep 

Affection — Memory — Grief — 
Pass o'er my soul as winds that sweep 

O'er a frail aspen-leaf! 
O that the quiet of thine eye 
Might sink there when the storm goes by ! 

Yet look thou still serenely on, 

And if sweet friends there be. 
That when my song and soul are gone 

Shall seek my form in thee, — 
Tell them of one for whom 'twas best 
To flee away and be at rest \ 



(148) 



ANGEL VISITS. 

Are ye forever to your skies departed ? 

Oh ! will ye visit this dim world no more ? 
Ye, whose bright wings a solemn splendor darted 

Through Eden's fresh and flowering shades of yore ? 
Now are the fountains dried on that sweet spot. 
And ye — our faded earth beholds you not ! 

Yet, by your shining eyes not all forsaken, 
Man wander' d from his Paradise away ; 

Ye, from forgetfulness his heart to waken, 

Came down, high guests ! in many a later day. 

And with the patriarchs, under vine or oak, 

'Midst noontide calm, or hush of evening, spoke. 

From you, the veil of midnight darkness rending. 
Came the rich mysteries to the sleeper's eye, 

That saw your hosts ascending and descending 
On those bright steps between the earth and sky : 

Trembling he woke, and bow' d o'er glory's trace. 

And worshipp'd, awe-struck, in that fearful place. 

By Chebar's brook ye pass'd, such radiance wearing 

As mortal vision might but ill endure ; 
Along the stream the living chariot bearing, 

With its high crystal arch, intensely pure ! 
And the dread rushing of your wings that hour. 
Was like the noise of waters in their power. 



(149) 

But in the Olive-mount, by night appearing, 

'Midst the dim leaves, your holiest work was done ! 

Whose was the voice that came divinely cheering, 
Fraught with the breath of God, to aid his Son ? 

— Haply of those that, on the moon-lit plains, 

Wafled good tidings unto Syrian swains. 

Yet one more task was yours ! your heavenly dwelling 
Ye left, and by the unseal' d sepulchral stone. 

In glorious raiment, sat ; the weepers telling. 

That He they sought had triumph' d, and was gone ! 

Nor have ye left us for the brighter shore. 

Your presence lights the lonely groves no more. 

But may ye not, unseen, around us hover, 

With gentle promptings and sweet influence yet. 

Though the fresh glory of those days be over, 

W^hen, 'midst the palm trees, man your footsteps met ? 

Are ye not near when faith and hope rise high. 

When love, by strength, o'ermasters agony ? 

Are ye not near when sorrow, unrepining, 

Yields up life's treasures unto Him who gave ? 

W^hen martyrs, all things for His sake resigning, 
Lead on the march of death, serenely brave ? 

Dreams ! — but a deeper thought our souls may fill — 

One, One is near — a spirit holier still ! 



13* 



(150) 



THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. 

They grew in beauty, side by side, 
They fill'd one home with glee; — 

Their graves are sever' d, far and wide, 
By mount, and stream and sea. 

The same fond mother bent at night 
O'er each fair sleeping brow ; 

She had each folded flower in sight — 
Where are those dreamers now ? 

One, 'midst the forest of the west. 

By a dark stream is laid — 
The Indian knows his place of rest. 

Far in the cedar shade. 

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one — 

He lies where pearls lie deep ; 
He was the loved of all, yet none 
O'er his low bed may weep. 

One sleeps where southern vines are drest, 

Above the noble slain ; 
He wrapt his colors round his breast 

On a blood-red field of Spain. 



(151) 

And one — o'er her the myrtle showers 
Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd ; 

She faded 'midst Italian flowers — 
The last of that bright band. 

And parted thus they rest, who play'd 
Beneath the same green tree ; 

Whose voices mingled as they pray'd 
Around one parent knee ! 

They that with smiles lit up the hall, 
And cheered with song the hearth — 

Alas ! for love, if thou wert all, 
And nought beyond, O earth ! 



TO A DEPARTED SPIRIT. 

From the bright stars, or from the viewless air, 
Or from some world unreach'd by human thought, 
Spirit, sweet spirit ! if thy home be there, 
And if thy visions with the past be fraught, 
Answer me, answer me ! 

Have we not communed here with life and death ? 
Have we not said that love, such love as ours. 
Was not to perish as a rose's breath, 
To melt away, like song from festal bowers ? 
Answer, oh ! answer me ? 



(152) 

Thine eye's last light was mine — The soul that shone 
Intensely, mournfully, through gathering haze — 
Didst thou bear with thee to the shore unknown, 
Naught of what lived in that long earnest gaze? 
Hear, hear, and answer me ! 

Thy voice — its low, soft, fervent, farewell tone 
ThrilPd through the tempest of the parting strife. 
Like a faint breeze: — oh! from that music flown, 
Send back one sound, if love's be quenchless life. 
But once, oh ! answer me ! 

In the still noontide, in the sunset's hush. 
In the dead hour of night, when thought grows deep. 
When the heart's phantoms from the darkness rush, 
Fearfully beautiful, to strive with sleep — 

Spirit ! then answer me ! 

By the remembrance of our blended prayer ; 
By ail our tears, whose mingling made them sweet ; 
By our last hope, the victor o'er despair ; — 
Speak ! if our souls in deathless yearnings meet ; 
Answer me, answer me ! 

The grave is silent : — and the far-off sky, 
And the deep midnight — silent ail, and lone! 
Oh ! if thy buried love make no reply. 
What voice has Earth ? — Hear, pity, speak, mine own ! 
Answer me, answer me ! 



(153) 



IVAN THE CZAR. 

He sat in silence on the ground. 

The old and haughty Czar, 
Lonely, though princes girt him round, 

iVnd leaders of the war : 
He had cast his Jewell' d sabre. 

That many a field had won, 
To the earth beside his youthful dead — 

His fair and first-born son. 

With a robe of ermine for its bed, 

Was laid that form of clay, 
Where the light a stormy sunset shed. 

Through the rich tent made way ; 
And a sad and solemn beauty 

On' the pallid face came down. 
Which the Lord of nations mutely watch' d. 

In the dust, with his renown. 

Low tones, at last, of woe and fear 

From his full bosom broke — 
A mournful thing it was to hear 

How then the proud man spoke ! 
The voice that through the combat 

Had shouted far and high. 
Came forth in strange, dull, hollow tones. 

Burden' d with agony. 



(154) 

" There is no crimson on thy cheek, 

And on thy lip no breath ; 
I call thee, and thou dost not speak — 

They tell me this is death ! 
And fearful things are whispering 

That I the deed have done — 
For the honor of thy father's name, 

Look up, look up, my son ! 

" Well might I know death's hue and mien. 

But on thine aspect, boy ! 
What, till this moment, have I seen 

Save pride and tameless joy ? 
Swiftest thou wert to battle, 

And bravest there of all — 
How could I think a warrior's frame 

Thus like a flovv^er should fall ? 

" I will not bear that still cold look — 

Rise up, thou fierce and free ! 
Wake as the storm wakes ! I will brook 

All, save this calm, from thee ! 
Lift brightly up, and proudly, 

Once more thy kindred eyes ! ^ 

Hath my word lost its power on earth? 

I say to thee, arise ! 

" Didst thou not know I loved thee well ? 

Thou didst not ! and art gone. 
In bitterness of soul, to dwell 

Where man must dwell alone. 



(155) 

Come back, young fiery spirit ! 

If but one hour, to learn 
The secrets of the folded heart 

That seeem'd to thee so stern. 

" Thou wert the first, the first, fair child. 

That in mine arms I press' d : 
Thou wert the bright one, that hast smiled 

Like summer on my breast ! 
I rearM thee as an eagle, 

To the chase thy steps I led, 
I bore thee on my battle-horse, 

I look upon thee — dead ! 

" Lay down my warlike banners here, 

Never again to wave. 
And bury my red sword and spear, 

Chiefs ! in my first-born's grave ! 
And leave me ! — I have conquer'd, 

I have slain — my work is done ! 
Whom have I slain ? — ye answer not — 

Thou too art mute, my son !" 

And thus his wild lament was pour'd 

Through the dark resounding night. 
And the battle knew no more his sword, 

Nor the foaming steed his might. 
He heard strange voices moaning 

In every wind that sigh'd ; 
From the searching stars of heaven he shrank- 

Humbly the conqueror died. 



(156) 



THE KING OF ARRAGON'S LAMENT FOR HIS BROTHER. 

There were lights and sounds of revelling in the van-- 

quish'd city's halls, 
As by night the feast of victory was held within its walls ; 
And the conquerors filled the wine cup high, after years 

of bright blood shed ,* 
But their Lord, the King of Arragon, 'midst the triumph, 

wail'd the dead. 

He look'd down from the fortress won, on the tents and: 

towers below, 
The moon-lit sea, the torch-lit streets, — and a gloom came 

o'er his brow : 
The voice of thousands floated up, with the horn and 

cymbal's tone ; 
But his heart, 'midst that proud music, felt more utterly 

alone. 

And he cried, " Thou art mine, fair city ! thou city of 

the sea ! 
But, oh ! what portion of delight is mine at last in thee ? 
— I am lonely 'midst thy palaces, while the glad waves 

past them roll. 
And the soft breath of thine orange-bowers is mournful to 

my soul, 

"My brother! oh! my brother! thou art gone, — the true 

and brave, 
And the haughty joy of victory hath died upon thy grave , 



(157) 

There are many round my throne to stand, and to march 

where I lead on ; 
There was one to love me in the world, — my brother! 

thou art gone ! 

•' In the desert, in the battle, in the ocean-tempest's wrath, 
We stood together, side by side ; one hope was ours, — 

one path ; 
rhou hast wrapt me in the soldier's cloak, thou hast fenced 

me with thy breast ; 
rhou hast watch' d beside my couch of pain — oh! bravest 

heart, and best ! 

' I see the festive lights around ; — o'er a dull sad world 

they shine ; 
[ hear the voice of victory — my Pedro ! where is thine 7 
rhe only voice in whose kind tone my spirit found reply ! — 
3 brother f I have bought too dear this hollow pageantry ! 

' I have hosts, and gallant fleets, to spread my glory and 

my sway, 
^nd chiefs to lead them fearlessly ; — my friend hath 

pass'd away ! 
^r the kindly look, the word of cheer, my heart may 

thirst in vain, 
^nd the face that was as light as mine — it cannot come 

again ! 

' I have made thy blood, thy faithful blood, the ofTering 

for a crown ; 
Vith love, which earth bestows not twice, I have purchased 

cold renown ; 

U 



(158) 

How oflen will my weary heart 'midst the sounds of 

triumph die, 
When I think of thee, my brother ! thou flower of chivalry ! 

" I am lonely — I am lonely! this rest is even as death! 

Let me hear again the ringing spears, and the battle- 
trumpet's breath ; 

Let me see the fiery charger foam, and the royal banner 
wave — 

But where art thou, my brother? where'? — in thy Tow 
and early grave !" 

And louder swelled the songs of joy through that victo- 
rious night. 

And faster flow'd the red wine forth, by the stars' and 
torches' light ; 

But low and deep, amidst the mirth, was heard the con- 
queror's moan — 

" My brother ! oh ! my brother ! best and bravest ! thou 
art gone !" 



THE LAND OF DREAMS. 

O Spirit-Land ! thou land of dreams ! 
A world thou art of mysterious gleams, 
Of startling voices, and sounds at strife, — 
A world of the dead in the hues of life. 

Like a wizard's magic glass thou art. 
When the wavy shadows float by, and part ; 



(159) 

Visions of aspects, now loved, now strange, 
Glimmering and mingling in ceaseless chano;e, 



^5^ 



Thou art like a city of the past, 
With its gorgeous halls in fragments cast, 
Amidst whose ruins there glide and play 
Familiar forms of the world's to-day. 

Thou art like the depths where the seas have birth. 
Rich with the wealth that is lost from earth, — 
All the sere flowers of our days gone by, 
And the buried gems in thy bosom lie. 

Yes ! thou art like those dim sea-caves, 

A realm of treasures, a realm of graves ! 

And the shapes through thy mysteries that come and go. 

Are of beauty and terror, of power and woe. 

But for me, O thou picture-land of sleep ! 
Thou art all one world of affections deep, — 
And wrung from my heart is each flushing dye, 
That sweeps o'er thy chambers of imagery. 

And thy bowers are fair — e'en as Eden fair ; 
All the beloved of my soul are there ! 
The forms of my spirit most pines to see. 
The eyes, whose love hath been life to me ; 

They are there, — and each blessed voice I hear. 
Kindly, and joyous, and silvery clear ; 
But under-tones are in each, that say, — 
" It is but a dream ; it will melt away !" 



(160) 

I walk with sweet friends in the sunset's glow ; 

I listen to music of long ago ; 

But one thought, like an omen, breathes faint through the lay: 

" It is but a dream ; it will melt away !" 

I sit by the hearth of my early days ; 
All the home-faces are met by the blaze, — 
And the eyes of the mother shine soft, yet say 
" It is but a dream ; it will melt away !" 

And away, like a flower's passing breath, 'tis gone, 
And I wake more sadly, more deeply lone ! 
Oh ! a haunted heart is a weight to bear, — 
Bright faces, kind voices i where are ye, where ? 

Shadow not forth, O thou land of dreams. 

The past, as it fled by my own blue streams ! 

Make not my spirit within me burn 

For the scenes and the hours that may ne'er return ! 

Call out from the future thy visions bright. 
From the world o'er the grave, take thy solemn light, 
And oh ! with the loved, whom no more I see, 
Show me my home, as it yet may be ! 

As it yet may be in some purer sphere. 

No cloud, no parting, no sleepless fear ; 

So my soul may bear on through the long, long day. 

Till I go where the beautiful melts not away ! 



(161) 



THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO. 

There was music on the midnight ,* — 

From a royal fane it roll'd. 
And a mighty bell, each pause between, 

Sternly and slowly toU'd. 
Strange was their mingling in the sky, 

It hush'd the listener's breath ; 
For the music spoke of triumph high, 

The lonely bell, of death. 

There was hurrying through the midnight — 

A sound of many feet : 
But they fell with a muffled fearfulness, 

Along the shadowy street : 
And softer, fainter, grew their tread, 

As it near'd the minster-gate. 
Whence a broad and solemn light was shed 

From a scene of royal state. 

Full glow'd the strong red radiance. 

In the centre of the nave. 
Where the folds of a purple canopy 

Swept down in many a wave ; 
Loading the marble pavement old 

With a weight of gorgeous gloom, 
For something lay 'midst their fretted gold, 

Like a shadow of the tomb. 

14* 



(162) 

And within that rich pavilion, 

High on a glittering throne, 
A woman's form sat silently, 

'Midst the glare of light alone. 
Her je weird robes fell strangely still — 

The drapery on her breast 
Seem'd with no pulse beneath to thrill, 

So stone-like was its rest ! 

But a peal of lordly music 

Shook e'en the dust below, 
When the burning gold of the diadem 

Was set on her pallid brow ! 
Then died away that haughty sound. 

And from the encircling band 
Stept Prince and Chief, 'midst the hush profound. 

With homage to her hand. 

Why pass'd a faint, cold shuddering 

Over each martial frame. 
As one by one, to touch that hand, 

Noble and leader came? 
Was not the settled aspect fair ? 

Did not a queenly grace, 
Under the parted ebon hair. 

Sit on the pale still face? 

Death ! Death ! canst tliou be lovely 

Unto the eye of Life? 
Is not each pulse of the quick high breast 

With thy cold mien at strife? 



( 163 ) 

— It was a strange and fearful sight, 

The crown upon that head, 
The glorious robes, and the blaze of light. 

All gather' d round the Dead! 

And beside her stood in silence 

One with a brow as pale, 
And white lips rigidly compress' d. 

Lest the strong heart should fail : 
King Pedro, with a jealous eye, 
. Watching the homage done. 
By the land's flower and chivalry. 

To her, his martyr' d one. 

But on the face he look'd not. 

Which once his star had been ; 
To every form his glance was turn'd. 

Save of the breathless queen : 
Though something won from the grave's embrace. 

Of her beauty still was there. 
Its hues were all of that shadowy place. 

It was not for him to bear. 

Alas ! the crown, the sceptre, 

The treasures of the earth, 
And the priceless love that pour'd those gifts, 

Alike of wasted worth ! 
The rites are closed : — bear back the Dead 

Unto the chamber deep ! 
Lay down again the royal head. 

Dust with the dust to sleep ! 



(164) 

There is music on the midnight — 

A requiem sad and slow, 
As the mourners through the sounding aisle 

In dark procession go ; 
And the ring of state, and the starry crown, 

And all the rich array. 
Are borne to the house of silence down. 

With her, that queen of clay ! 

And tearlessly and firmly 

King Pedro led the train, — 
But his face was wrapt in his folding robe. 

When they lower' d the dust again. 
'Tis hush'd at last the tomb above, 

Hymns die, and steps depart : 
Who call'd thee strong as death, O Love ? 

Mightier thou wast and art. 



THE TWO HOMES. 

Seest thou my home ? — 'tis where yon woods are waving 
In their dark richness, to the summer air ; 
Where yon blue stream, a thousand flower-banks laving, 
Leads down the hills a vein of light, — 'tis there ! 

'Midst those green wilds how many a fount lies gleaming. 
Fringed with the violet, color' d with the skies ! 
My boyhood's haunt, through days of summer dreaming, 
Under young leaves that shook with melodies. 



(165) 

My home ! the spirit of its love is breathing 
In every wind that plays across my track ; 
From its white walls the very tendrils wreathing, 
Seem with soft links to draw the wanderer back. 



There am I loved — there pray'd for — there my mother 
Sits by the hearth with meekly thoughtful eye ; 
There my young sisters watch to greet their brother 
— Soon their glad footsteps down the path will fly. 

There, in sweet strains of kindred music blending, 

All the home-voices meet at day's decline ; 

One are those tones, as from one heart ascending, — 

There laughs my home — sad stranger! — where is thine? 

Ask'st thou of mine? — In solemn peace 'tis lying, 
Far o'er the deserts and the tombs away ; 
'Tis where J, too, am loved with love undying, 
And fond hearts wait my step — But where are they? 

Ask where the earth's departed have their dwelling ! 
Ask of the clouds, the stars, the trackless air ! 
I know it not, yet trust the whisper, telling 
My lone heart, that love unchanged is there. 

And what is home, and where, but with the loving? 
Happy tliou art, that so canst gaze on thine I 
My spirit feels, but in its weary roving. 
That with the dead, where'er they be, is mine. 



(166) 

Go to thy home, rejoicing son and brother ! 
Bear in fresh gladness to the household scene ! 
For me, too, watch the sister and the mother, 
I well believe — but dark seas roll between. 



WOMAN ON THE FIELD OF BATTLE. 

Gentle and lovely form. 

What didst thou here, 
When the fierce battle-storm 

Bore dov/n the spear ? 

Banner and shiver' d crest, 

Beside thee strov/n. 
Tell, that amidst the best, 

Thy work was done ! 

Yet strangely, sadly fair. 

O'er the wild scene. 
Gleams through its golden hair. 

That brow serene. 

Low lies the stately head, — 

Earth-bound the free ; 
How gave those haughty dead 

A place to thee? 

Slumberer ! thine early bier 
Friends should have crown'd. 

Many a flower and tear 
Shedding around. 



( 167 ) 

Soft voices, clear and young, 

Mingling their swell, 
Should o'er the dust have sung 

Earth's last farewell. 

Sisters, above the grave 

Of thy repose. 
Should have bid violets wave 

With the white rose. 

Now must the trumpet's note, 

Savage and shrill. 
For requiem o'er thee float, 

Thou fair and still I 

And the swift charger sweep. 

In full career. 
Trampling thy place of sleep, — 

Why camest thou here ? 

Why 1 — ask the true heart why 

Woman hath been 
Ever, where brave men die. 

Unshrinking seen ? 

Unto this harvest ground 
Proud reapers came, — 

Some, for that stirring sound, 
A warrior's name ; 

Some, for the stormy play 

And joy of strife ; 
And some, to fling away 

A weary life ; — 



(168) 

But thou, pale sleeper, thou, 
With the slight frame. 

And the rich locks, whose glow 
Death cannot tame ; 

Only one thought, one power, 

Thee could have led, 
So, through the tempest's hour, 

To lift thy head ! 



^^0 5 



Only the true, the strong 
The love, whose trust 

Woman's deep soul too long 
Pours on the dust ! 



THE DESERTED HOUSE. 

Gloom is upon thy silent hearth, 

O silent house ! once fill'd with mirth ; 

Sorrow is in the breezy sound 

Of thy tall poplars whispering round. 

The shadow of departed hours 
Hangs dim upon thy early flowers ; 
Even in thy sunshine seems to brood 
Something more deep than solitude. 

Fair art thou, fair to a stranger's gaze. 
Mine own sweet home of other days ! 
My children's birth-place ! yet for me, 
It is too much to look on thee. 



(169) 

Too much ! for, all about thee spread, 
I feel the memory of the dead, 
And almost linger for the feet 
That never more my step shall meet. 

The looks, the smiles, all vanish' d now, 
Follow me where thy roses blow ; 
The echoes of kind household words 
Are with me 'midst thy singing birds. 

Till mjy heart dies, it dies away 
In yearnings for what might not stay ; 
For love which ne'er deceived my trust, 
For all which went with " dust to dust !" 

What now is left me, but to raise 
From thee, lorn spot ! my spirit's gaze. 
To lift through tears my straining eye 
Up to my Father's house on high ? 

Oh ! many are the mansions there. 
But not in one hath grief a share ! 
No haunting shade from things gone by, 
May there o'ersweep the unchanging sky. 

And they are there, whose long-loved mien 
In earthly home no more is seen ; 
Whose places, where they smiling sate, 
Are left unto us desolate. 

We miss them when the board is spread ; 
We miss them when the prayer is said ; 
Upon our dreams their dying eyes 
In still and mournful fondness rise. 

15 



(170) 

But they are where these longings vain 
Trouble no more the heart and brain; 
The sadness of this aching love 
Dims not our Father's house above. 

Ye are at rest, and I in tears. 
Ye dwellers of immortal spheres ! 
Under the poplar boughs I stand, 
And mourn the broken household band. 

But by your life of lowly faith, 
And by your joyful hope in death. 
Guide me, till on some brighter shore. 
The sever' d wreath is bound once more ! 

Holy ye w^ere, and good, and true ! 
No change can cloud my thoughts of you 
Guide me like you to live and die. 
And reach my Father's house on high ! 



TO A REMEMBERED PICTURE. 

They haunt me still — those calm, pure, holy eyes i 
Their piercing sweetness wanders through my dreams ; 

The soul of music that within them lies. 

Comes o'er my soul in soft and sudden gleams ; 

Life — spirit-life — immortal and divine — 

Is there — and yet how dark a death was thine ! 



(171) 

Could it — oh ! could it be — meek child of song ? 

The might of gentleness on that fair brow — 
Was the celestial gifl no shield from wrong? 

Bore it no talisman to ward the blow ? 
Ask if a flower, upon the billows cast, 
Might brave their strife — a flute-note hush the blast ? 

Are there not deep sad oracles to read 
In the clear stillness of that radiant face ? 

Yes, even like thee must gifted spirits bleed, 

Thrown on a world, for heavenly things no place ! 

Bright exiled birds that visit alien skies, 

Pouring on storms their suppliant melodies. 

And seeking ever some true, gentle breast. 

Whereon their trembling plumage might repose, 

And their free song-notes, from that happy nest, 
Gush as a fount that forth from sunlight flows ; 

Vain dream ! the love whose precious balms might save. 

Still, still denied — they struggle to the grave. 

Yet my heart shall not sink ! — another doom, 
Victim ! hath set its promise in thine eye ; 

A light is there, too quenchless for the tomb. 
Bright earnest of a nobler destiny ; 

Telling of answers, in some far-ofl* sphere. 

To the deep souls that find no echo here. 



(172) 



BERNARDO DEL CARPIO.* 

The warrior bow'd his crested head, and tamed his heart 

of fire, 
And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprison' d sire ; 
"I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my captive train, 
I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord ! — oh, break my 

father's chain !" 

" Rise, rise ! even now thy father comes, a ransom'd man 

this day ; 
Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will meet him on 

his way." 
Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed. 
And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy 

speed. 

And lo ! from far, as on they press' d, there came a glit- 
tering band. 

With one that 'midst them stately rode, as a leader in the 
land ; 



* The celebrated Spanish champion, Bernardo del Carpio, having made 
many ineffectual efforts to procure the release of his father, the Count Sal- 
dana, who had been imprisoned by King Alfonso of Austurias, almost from 
the time of Bernardo's birth, at last took up arms in despair. The war 
which he maintained proved so destructive, that the men of the land 
gathered round the King, and united in demanding Saldana's liberty. Al- 
fonso, accordingly, offered Bernardo immediate possession of his father's 
person, in exchange for his castle of Carpio. Bernardo, without hesitation, 
gave up his stronghold, with all his captives ; and being assured that his 
father was then on his way from prison, rode forth with the king to meet 
him. "And when he saw his father approaching, he exclaimed," says 
the ancient chronicle, "'Oh, God! is the Count of Saldana indeed 
coming?' — ' Look where he is,' replied the cruel king, ' and now go and 
greet him whom you have so long desired to see.' " The remainder of 
the story will be found related in the ballad. The chronicles and romances 
leave us nearly in the dark as to Bernardo's history after this event. 



(173) 

"Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he, 
The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearn'd so long 
to see.'* 

His dark eye flash' d, his proud breast heaved, his cheek's 
blood came and went ; 

He reach'd that grey-hair'd chieftain's side, and there, dis- 
mounting, bent ; 

A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand h6 took, — 

What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook ? 

That hand was cold — a frozen thing — it dropp'd from his 

like lead, — 
He look'd up to the face above — the face was of the dead! 
A plume waved o'er the noble brow — the brow was fix'd 

and white ,* — 
He met at last his father's eyes — but in them was no sight! 

Up from the ground he sprang, and gazed, but who could 

paint that gaze ? 
They hush'd their very hearts, that saw its horror and 

amaze ; 
They might have chain'd him, as before that stony form 

he stood. 
For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his 

lip the blood. 

"Father!" at length he murmur'd low — and wept like 

childhood then, — 
Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike 

men ! — 
He thought on all his glorious hopes, all his young renown: 
He flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust sate 

down. 

15* 



(174) 

Then covering with his steel -gloved hands his darkly 

mournful brow, 
" No more, there is no more," he said, " to lift the sword 

for now. — 
My king is false, my hope betray'd, my Father — oh! the 

worth. 
The glory and the loveliness, are pass'd away from earth ! 

" I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire ! beside 

thee yet, 
I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil 

had met, — 
Thou wouldst have known my spirit then, — for thee my 

fields were won, — 
And thou hast perish' d in thy chains, as though thou hadst 

no son !" 

Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the 
monarch's rein. 

Amidst the pale and wilder'd looks of all the courtier train ; 

And with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing war- 
horse led. 

And sternly set them face to face, — the king before the 
dead ! — 

" Came I not forth upon thy pledge, jny father's hand to 

kiss ? — 
Be still, and gaze thou on, false king ! and tell me what 

is this ! 
The voice, the glance, the heart I sought — ^-give answer, 

where are they ? — 
If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through 

this cold clay ! 



(175) 

''Into these glassy eyes put light — be still! keep down 

thine ire, — 
Bid these white lips a blessing speak — this earth is not 

my sire ! 
Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood 

was shed, — 
Thou canst not — and a king? — His dust be mountains 

on thy head !" 

He loosed the steed; his slack hand fell, — upon the silent 

face 
He cast one long, deep, troubled look, — then turn'd from 

that sad place : 
His hope was crush' d, his after-fate untold in martial strain ; 
His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of 

Spain. 



THE TWO VOICES. 

Two solemn Voices, in a funeral strain. 

Met as rich sunbeams and dark bursts of rain 

Meet in the sky : 
" Thou art gone hence !" one sang ; " Our light is flown, 
Our beautiful, that seem'd too much our own 

Ever to die ! 

"Thou art gone hence! — our joyous hills among 
Never again to pour thy soul in song. 

When spring-flowers rise ! 
Never the friend's familiar step to meet 
With loving laughter, and the welcome sweet 

Of thy glad eyes." 



(176) 

" Thou art gone home, gone liome /" then, high and clear 
Warbled that other Voice : " Thou hast no tear 

Again to shed. 
Never to fold the robe o'er secret pain, 
Never, weigh'd down by Memory's clouds, again 

To bow thy head. 

" Thou art gone home ! oh ! early crown'd and blest ! 
Where could the love of that deep heart find rest 

With aught below? 
Thou must have seen rich dream by dream decay, 
All the bright rose leaves drop from life away — 

Thrice bless' d to go !" 

Yet sigh'd again that breeze-like Voice of grief — 
'' Thou art gone hence ! alas ! that aught so brief, 

So loved should be ; 
Thou tak'st our summer hence ! — the flower, the tone 
The music of our being, all in one. 

Depart with thee ! 

" Fair form, young spirit, morning vision fled ! 
Canst thou be of the dead, the awful dead ? 

The dark unknown ? 
Yes ! to the dwelling where no footsteps fall, 
Never again to light up hearth or hall, 

Thy smile is gone !" 

'^ Home, home f'^ once more the exulting Voice arose: 
" Thou art gone home ! — from that divine repose 

Never to roam ! 
Never to say farewell, to weep in vain. 
To read of change, in eyes beloved, again — 

Thou art gone home ! 



(177) 

" By the bright waters now thy lot is cast — 
Joy for thee, happy friend ! thy bark hath past 

The rough sea's foam ! 
Now the long yearnings of thy soul are still'd, 
Home! home! — thy peace is won, thy heart is fill'd. 

Thou art gone home ?" 



THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION. 

One draught, kind Fairy ! from that fountain deep, 
To lay the phantoms of a haunted breast, 
And lone affections, which are griefs, to steep 
In the cool honey-dews of dreamless rest ; 
And from the soul the lightning-marks to lave — 
One draught of that sweet wave ! 

Yet, mortal, pause ! — within thy mind is laid 
Wealth, gather'd long and slowly; thoughts divine 
Heap that full treasure-house ; and thou hast made 
The gems of many a spirit's ocean thine ; 
— Shall the dark waters to oblivion bear 
A pyramid so fair ? 

Pour from the fount ! and let the draught efface 
All the vain lore by memory's pride amass'd, 
So it but sweep along the torrent's trace, 
And fill the hollow channels of the past ; 
And from the bosom's inmost folded leaf, 
Rase the one master-grief! 



(178) 

Yet pause once more ! — all, all thy soul hath known, 
Loved, felt, rejoiced in, from its grasp must fade ! 
Is there no voice whose kind awakening tone 
A sense of spring-time in thy heart hath made ? 
No eye w^hose glance thy day-dreams would recall ? 
— Think — wouldst thou part with all ? 

Fill with forgetfulness ! — there are, there are 
Voices whose music I have loved too well ; 
Eyes of deep gentleness — but they are far — 
Never ! oh — never, in my home to dwell ! 
Take their soft looks from off my yearning soul — 
Fill high the oblivious bowl ! 

Yet pause again ! — with memory wilt thou cast 
The undying hope away, of memory born ? 
Hope of reunion, heart to heart at last. 
No restless doubt between^ no rankling thorn ? 
Wouldst thou erase all records of delight 

That make such visions bright ? 

Fill with forgetfulness, fill high ! — yet stay — 

— 'Tis from the past we shadow forth the land 
Where smiles, long lost, again shall light our way. 
And the soul's friends be wreath'd in one bright band i 

— Pour the sweet w^aters back on their own rill, 

I must remember still. 

For their sake, for the dead — whose image naught 
May dim within the temple of my breast — 
For their love's sake, which now no earthly thought 
May shake or trouble with its own unrest. 
Though the past haunt me as a spirit, — yet 
I ask not to forget. 



(179) 



WASHINGTON'S STATUE. 

SENT FROM ENGLAND TO AMERICA. 

Yes ! rear thy guardian hero's form 
On thy proud soil, thou western world ! 

A watcher through each sign of storm. 
O'er freedom's flag unfurl' d. 

There, as before a shrine, to bow. 
Bid thy true sons their children lead : 

The language of that noble brow 
For all things good shall plead. 

The spirit rear'd in patriot fight. 

The virtue born of home and hearth, 

There calmly throned, a holy light 
Shall pour o'er chainless earth. 

And let that work of England's hand, 
Sent through the blast and surge's roar, 

So girt with tranquil glory stand, 
For ages on thy shore ! 

Such, through all time, the greetings be 
That with the Atlantic billow sweep ! 

Telling the mighty and the free 
Of brothers o'er the deep. 



(180) 



THE VAUDOIS' WIFE. 

Thy voice is in mine ear, beloved ! 

Thy look is in my heart, 
Thy bosom is m.y resting-place, 

And yet I must depart. 
Earth on my soul is strong — too strong — 

Too precious is its chain. 
All woven of thy love, dear friend. 

Yet vain — though mighty — vain ! 

Thou seest mine eye grow dim, beloved ! 

Thou seest my life-blood flow. — 
Bow to the chastener silently, 

And calmly let me go ! 
A little while betv/een our hearts 

The shadowy gulf must lie. 
Yet have we for their communino* 

Still, still Eternity ! 

Alas! thy tears are on -my cheek. 

My spirit they detain ; 
I know that from thine agony 

Is wrung that burning rain. 
Best, kindest, weep not ; — make the pang, 

The bitter conflict, less — 
Oh ! sad it is, and yet a joy. 

To feel thy love's excess I 



(181) 

But calm thee ! ]Let the thought of death 

A solemn peace restore ! 
The voice that must be silent soon, 

Would speak to thee once more, 
That thou may'st bear its blessings on 

Through years of after life — 
A token of consoling love, 

Even from this hour of strife, 

I bless thee for the noble heart, 

The tender, and the true. 
Where mine hath found the happiest rest 

That e'er fond woman's knew ; 
I bless thee, faithful friend and guide. 

For my own, my treasured share. 
In the mournful secrets of thy soul. 

In thy sorrow, in thy prayer. 

I bless thee for the kind looks and words 

Shower' d on my path like dew. 
For all the love in those deep eyes 

A gladness ever new ! 
For the voice which ne'er to mine replied 

But in kindly tones of cheer ; 
For every spring of happiness 

My soul hath tasted here ! 

I bless thee for the last rich boon 

Won from affection tried. 

The right to gaze on death with thee. 

To perish by thy side ! 

16 



(182) 

And yet .more for the glorious hope 
Even to tliese moments given — 

Did not thy spirit ever lift 

The trust of mine to Heaven ? 



Now be thou strong ? Oh ! knew we not 

Our path must lead to this ? 
A shadow and a trembling still 

AVere mingled with our bliss ! 
We plighted our young hearts when storms 

Were dark upon the sky, 
In full, deep knowledge of their task 

To suffer and to die ! 

Be strong ! I leave the living voice 

Of this, my martyr'd blood. 
With the thousand echoes of the hills, 

With the torrent's foaming flood, — 
A spirit 'midst the caves to dwell, 

A token on the air, 
To rouse the valiant from repose, 

The fainting from despair. 

Hear it, and bear thou on, my love ! 

Aye, joyously, endure ; 
Our mountains must be altars yet, 

Inviolate and pure ; 
There must our God be worshipp'd still 

With the worship of the free — 
Farewell! there's hvX one pang in death. 

One only, — leaving thee ! 



(183) 



THE STORM-PAINTER IN HIS DUNGEON. 

Midnight, and silence deep ! 

The air is filPd with sleep, 
With the stream's whisper, and the citron's breath ; 

The fix'd and solemn stars 

Gleam through my dungeon bars — 
Wake, rushing winds ! this breezeless calm is death ! 

Ye watch-fires of the skies ! 

The stillness of your eyes 
Looks too intensely through my troubled soul ; 

I feel this weight of rest 

An earth-load on my breast — 
Wake, rushing winds, awake ! and dark clouds, roll ! 

I am your own, your child, 

O ye, the fierce, the wild. 
And kingly tempests ! — will ye not arise ? 

Hear the bold spirit's voice. 

That knows not to rejoice 
But in the peal of your strong harmonies. 

By sounding ocean-waves. 

And dim Calabrian caves. 
And flashing torrents, I have been your mate ; 

And with the rocking pines 

Of the olden Apennines, 
In your dark path stood fearless and elate : 



(184) 

Your lightnings were as rods, 

That smote the deep abodes 
Of thought and vision — and the stream gush'd free ; 

Come, that my soul again 

May swell to burst its chain — 
Bring me the music of the sweeping sea ! 

Within me dwells a flame, 

An eagle caged and tame. 
Till call'd forth by the harping of the blast ; 

Then is its triumph's hour, 

It springs to sudden power 
As mounts the billow o'er the quivering mast» 

Then, then, the canvass o'er, 

With hurried hand I pour 
The lava- waves and guests of my own soul ! 

Kindling to fiery life 

Dreams, worlds, of pictured strife — 
Wake, rushing winds, awake ! and, dark clouds, roll ! 

Wake, rise ! the reed may bend. 

The shivering leaf descend, 
The forest branch give w^ay before your might ; 

But I, your strong compeer. 

Call, summon, wait you here — 
Answer, my spirit ! — answer, storm and night ! 



(185) 

THE BETTER LAND. 

" I HEAR thee speak of the better land, 

Thou call'st its children a happy band ; 

Mother ! oh, where is that radiant shore ? 

Shall we not seek it, and weep no more ? 

Is it where the flower of the orange blows, 

And the fireflies glance through the myrtle boughs ?" 

— ''Not there, not there, my child!" 

"Is it where the feathery palm trees rise. 
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies ? 
Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas, 
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze. 
And strange bright birds on their starry wings 
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things ?" 

— "Not there, not there, my child!" 

" Is it far away, in some region old. 

Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold ? 

Where the burning rays of the ruby shine. 

And the diamond lights up the secret mine. 

And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand? — 

Is it there, sweet mother, that better land ?" 

— "Not there, not there, my child!" 

" Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy ! 
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy ; 
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair — 
Sorrow and death may not enter there : 
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom, 
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb, 

— "It is there, it is there, my child!" 

16 



(186) 



TRIUMPHANT MUSIC. 

Wherefore and whither bear'st thou up my spirit, 
On eagle-wings, through every pUuiie that thrill ? 

It hath no crown of victory to inherit — 
Be still, triumphant harmony ! be still ! 

Thine are no sounds for earth, thus proudly swelling 

Into rich floods of joy : — it is but pain 
To mount so high, yet find on high no dwelling. 

To sink so fast, so heavily again ! 

No sounds for earth? — Yes. to young chieftain dying 

On his own battle field, at set of sun, 
With his freed country's banner o'er him flying, 

Well might' st thou speak of fame's high guerdon won. 

No sounds for earth ? — Yes, for the martyr leading 

Unto victorious death serenely on, 
For patriot by his rescued altars bleeding, 

Thou hast a voice in each majestic tone. 

But speak not thus to one whose heart is beating 
Against life's narrow bound, in conflict vain ! 
For power, for joy, high hope, and rapturous greeting, 
Thou wakest lone thirst — be hush'd, exulting strain ! 

Be hush'd, or breathe of grief! — of exile yearnings 
Under the willows of the stranger-shore ! 

Breathe of the soul's untold and restless burnings, 
For looks, tones, footsteps, that return no more. 



(187) 

Breathe of deep love — a lonely vigil keeping 

Through the night hours, o'er wasted wealth to pine ; 

Rich thoughts and sad, like faded rose-leaves heaping, 
In the shut heart, at once a tomb and shrine. 

Or pass as if thy spirit-notes came sighing 
From worlds beneath some blue Elysian sky ; 

Breathe of repose, the pure, the bright, the undying — 
Of joy no more — bewildering harmony! 



TO THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD. 

Forget them not : — though now their name 

Be but a mournful sound. 
Though by the hearth its utterance claim 

A stillness round. 

Though for their sake this earth no more 

As it hath been may be, 
And shadows, never mark'd before. 

Brood o'er each tree ; 

And though their image dim the sky, 

Yet, yet forget them not ! 
Nor, where their love and life went by. 

Forsake the spot-! 

They have a breathing influence there, 

A charm not elsewhere found ; 
Sad — yet it sanctifies the air. 

The stream — the ground. 



(188) 

Then, though the wind an altered tone 
Through the young foliage bear, 

Though every flower, of something gone, 
A tinge may wear ; 

Oh ! fly it not ! ~ no fruitless grief 

Thus in their presence felt, 
A record luaks to every leaf 

There, where they dwelt. 

Still trace the path which knew their tread. 

Still tend their garden-bower, 
Still commune with the holy dead • 

In each lone hour ! 

The holy dead! — oh! bless' d we are. 

That we may call them so. 
And to their image look afar. 

Through, all our woe ! 

Bless'd, that the things they loved on earth, 

As relics we may hold. 
That wake sweet thoughts of parted worth. 

By springs untold I 

Bless'd, that a deep and chastening power 

Thus o'er our soul's is given. 
If but to bird, or song, or flower. 

Yet all for Heaven ! 



(189) 



THE PALMER. 

Art thou come from the far-off land at last? 

Thou hast wander'd long ! 
Thou art come to a home whence the smile hath pass'd 

With the merry voice of song. 

For the sunny glance and the bounding heart 

Thou wilt seek — but all are gone ; 
They are parted e'en as waters part, 

To meet in the deep alone ! 

And thou — from thy lip is fled the glow, 

From thine eye the light of morn ; 
And the shades of thought o'erhang thy brow 

And thy cheek with life is worn. 

Say what hast thou brought from the distant shore 

For thy wasted youth to pay? 
Hast thou treasure to win thee joys once more? 

Hast thou vassals to smooth thy way? 

" I have brought but the palm-branch in my hand, 

Yet I call not my bright youth lost ! 
I have won but high thought in the Holy Land, 

Yet I count not too dear the cost! 



( 190 ) 

" I look on the leaves of the deathless tree — 

These records of my track ; 
And better than youth in its flush of glee, 

Are the memories they give me back ! 

*' They speak of toil, and of high emprise, 

As in words of solemn cheer. 
They speak of lonely victories 

O'er pain, and doubt, and fear. 

^' They speak of scenes which have now become 

Bright pictures in my breast ; 
Where ray spirit finds a glorious home, 

And the love of my heart can rest. 

" The colors pass not from these away, 

Like tints of shower or sun ; 
Oh ! beyond all treasures that know decay. 

Is the wealth my soul hath won ! 

'' A rich light thence o'er my life's decline. 

An inborn light is cast ; 
For the sake of the palm from the holy shrine, 

I bewail not my bright days past !" 



(191) 



THE VICTOR. 

Mighty ones. Love and Death ! 
Ye are the strong in this world of ours. 
Ye meet at the banquets, ye dwell 'midst the flowers, 

— Which hath the conqueror's wreath ? 

Tho7i art the victor, Love ! 
Thou art the fearless, the crown'd, the free, 
The strength of the battle is given to thee, 

The spirit from above ! 

Thou hast look'd on Death, and smil'd ! 
Thou hast borne up the reed-like and fragile form, 
Through the waves of the fight, through the rush of the 
storm. 

On field, and flood, and wild ! 

No ! — Thou art the victor. Death ! 
Th'ou comest, and where is that which spoke, 
From the depths of the eye, when the spirit woke? 

— Gone with the fleeting breath ! 

Thou comest — and what is lefl 
Of all that loved us, to say if aught 
Yet loves — yet answers the burning thought 

Of the spirit lone and refl ? 

Silence is where thou art! 
Silently there must kindred meet. 
No smile to cheer, and no voice to greet, 

No boundins: of heart to heart ! 



(192) 

Boast not thy victory, Death ! 
It is but as the cloud's o'er the sunbeam's power, 
It is but as the winter's o'er leaf and flower, 

That slumber, the snow beneath. 

It is but as a tyrant's reign 
O'er the voice and the lip which he bids be still : 
But the fiery thought and the lofly will, 

Are not for him to chain ! 

They shall soar his might above ! 
And thus with the root whence affection springs, 
Though buried, it is not of mortal things — 

Thou art the victor, Love ! 



THE LAST WISH. 

Go to the forest shade. 

Seek thou the well known glade. 

Where, heavy with sweet dew, the violets lie, 
Gleaming through moss-tufls keep, 
Like dark eyes fill'd with sleep, 

And bathed in hues of Summer's midnight sky. 

Bring me their buds, to shed 

Around my dying bed 
A breath of May and of the wood's repose ; 

For I, in sooth, depart 

With a reluctant heart, 
That fain would linger where the bright sun glows. 



(193) 

Fain would I stay with thee — 

Alas ! this may not be ; 
Yet bring me still the gifts of happier hours ! 

Go w^here the fountain's breast 

Catches, in glassy rest, 
The dim green light that pours through laurel bowers. 

I know how softly bright, 

Steep' d in that tender light, 
The water-lilies tremble there e'en now ; 

Go to the pure stream's edge. 

And from its whisp'ring sedge 
Bring me those flowers to cool my fever' d brow ! 

Then, as in Hope's young days, 

Track thou the antique maze 
Of the rich garden to its grassy mound ; 

There is a lone white rose, 

Shedding in sudden snows, 
Its faint leaves o'er the emerald turf around. 

Well know'st thou that fair tree — 

A murmur of the bee 
Dwells ever in the honey' d lime above ; 

Bring me one pearly flower 

Of all its clustering shower — 
For on that spot we first reveal' d our love. 

Gather one woodbine bough, 

Then, from the lattice low 

Of the bower' d cottage which I bade thee mark, 

When by the hamlet last. 

Through dim wood lanes we passM, 

While dews were glancing to the glow worm's spark, 

17 



(194) 

Haste ! to my pillow bear 
Those fragrant things and fair ; 

My hand no more may bind them up at eve — 
Yet shall their odor soft 
One bright dream round me wafl 

Of life, youth, summer — all that I must leave ! 

And, oh ! if thou would'st ask 

Wherefore thy steps I task, 
The grove, the stream, the hamlet vale to trace - 

'Tis that some thought of me. 

When I am gone, may be 
The spirit bound to each familiar place. 

I bid mine image dwell 

(Oh ! break not thou the spell !) 
In the deep wood and by the fountain side 

Thou must not, my beloved ! 

Rove where we two have roved, 
Forgetting her that in her Spring-tim.e died ! 



I 



(195) 



THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO. 

Sound on, thou dark unslumbering sea ! 

My dirge is in thy moan ; 
My spirit finds response in thee, 
To its own ceaseless cry — "Alone, alone!" 

Yet send me back one other word, 
. Ye tones that never cease ! 
Oh ! let your secret caves be stirr'd, 
And say, dark waters ! will ye give me peace ? 

Away ! my weary soul hath sought 

In vain one echoing sigh, 
One answer to consuming thought 
In human hearts— and will the wave reply? 

Sound on, thou dark unslumbering sea ! 

Sound in thy scorn and pride ! 
I ask not, alien world, from thee, 
What my own kindred earth hath still denied. 

And yet I loved that earth so well 

With all its lovely things ! 
— Was it for this the death wind fell 
On my rich lyre, and quench' d its living strings? 



(196) 

— Let them lie silent at my feet 1 

Since broken even as they, 
The heart whose music made them sweet, 
Hath pour'd on desert-sands its wealth away. 

Yet glory's light hath touch'd my name, 

The laurel-wreath is mine — 
With a lone heart, a weary frame — 
O restless deep ! I come to make them thine ! 

Give place to that crown, that burning crown, 

Place in thy darkest hold ! 
Bury my anguish, my renown. 
With hidden wrecks, lost gems, and wasted gold. 

Thou sea-bird on the billow's crest. 

Thou hast thy love, thy home ; 
They wait thee in the quiet nest. 
And I, the unsought, unwatch'd-for — I too come ! 

I, with this wing'd nature fraught. 

These visions wildly free. 
This boundless love, this fiery thought — 
— Alone I come — oh ! give me peace, dark sea ! 



SmWt^ 




TTIHIE [P^[^iriK][EIi^(D)IR3. 



(197) 



THE PARTHENON. 

Fair Parthenon ! yet still must Fancy weep 
For thee, thou work of nobler spirits flown. 
Bright, as of old, the sunbeams o'er thee sleep 
In all their beauty still — and thine is gone ! 
Empires have sunk since thou wert first revered, 
And varying rites have sanctified thy shrine. 
The dust is round thee of the race that rear'd 
Thy walls ; and thou — their fate must soon be thine ! 
But when shall earth again exult to see 
Visions divine like theirs renew' d in aught like thee ? 

Lone are thy pillars now — each passing gale 
Sighs o'er them as a spirit's voice, which moan'd 
That loneliness, and told the plaintive tale 
Of the bright synod once above them throned. 
Mourn, graceful ruin ! on thy sacred hill, 
Thy gods, thy rites, a kindred fate have shared : 
Yet art thou honor'd in each fragment still 
That wasting years and barbarous hands had spared ; 
Each hallow' d stone, from rapine's fary borne. 
Shall wake bright dreams of thee in ages yet unborn. 

Yes ; in those fragments, though by time defaced 
And rude insensate conquerors, yet remains 
All that may charm the enlighten' d eye of taste. 
On shores where still inspiring freedom reigns. 



(198) 

As vital fragrance breathes from every part 
Of the crush'd myrtle, or the bruised rose, 
E'en thus the essential energy of art 
There in each wreck imperishably glows ! 
The soul of Athens lives in every line, 
Pervading brightly still the ruins of her shrine. 

Mark — on the storied frieze the graceful train, 
The holy festival's triumphal throng, 
In fair procession, to Minerva's fane. 
With many a sacred symbol, move along. 
There every shade of bright existence trace, 
The fire of youth, the dignity of age ; 
The matron's calm austerity of grace. 
The ardent warrior, the benignant sage ; 
The nymph's light symmetry, the chief's proud mien ; 
Each ray of beauty caught and mingled in the scene. 

Art unobtrusive there ennobles form. 
Each pure chaste outline exquisitely flows ; 
There e'en the steed, with bold expression warm, 
Is cloth'd with majesty, with being glows. 
One mighty mind hath harmonized the whole ; 
Those varied groups the same bright impress bear ; 
One beam an essence of exalting soul 
Lives in the grand, the delicate, the fair ; 
And well that pageant of the glorious dead 
Blends us with nobler days, and loftier spirits fled. 

O, conquering Genius ! that couldst thus detain 
The subtle graces, fading as they rise, 
Eternalize expression's fleeting reign. 
Arrest warm life in all its energies. 



(199) 

And fix them on the stone — thy glorious lot 
Might wake ambition's envy, and create 
Powers half divine : while nations are forgot, 
A thought, a dream of thine hath vanquished fate ! 
And when thy hand first gave its wonders birth, 
The realms that hail them now scarce claim'd a name on 
earth. 

Wert thou some spirit of a purer sphere 
But once beheld, and never to return ? 
No — we may hail again thy bright career, 
Again on earth a kindred fire shall burn ! 
Though thy least relics, e'en in ruin, bear 
A stamp of heaven, that ne'er hath been renew' d — 
A light inherent — let not man despair : 
Still be hope ardent, patience unsubdued ; 
For still is nature fair, and thought divine. 
And art hath won a world in models pure as thine. 



DIRGE. 

Where shall we make her grave ? 
— Oh ! where the wild flowers wave 

In the free air ! 
Where shower and singing bird 
'Midst the young leaves are heard — 

There — lay her there ! 



( 200 ) 

Harsh was the world to her — 
Now may sleep minister 

Balm for each ill : 
Low on sweet nature's breast, 
Let the meek heart find rest, 

Deep, deep and still ! 

Murmur, glad waters, by ! 
Faint gales, with happy sigh, 

Come wandering o'er 
That green and mossy bed. 
Where, on a gentle head. 

Storms beat no more ! 

What though for her in vain 
Falls now the bright spring rain, 

Plays the soft wind ? 
Yet still, from where she lies. 
Should blessed breathings rise. 

Gracious and kind. 

Therefore, let song and dew 
Thence, in the heart renew 

Life's vernal glow ! 
And o'er that holy earth 
Scents of the violet's birth 

Still come and go ! 

Oh ! then where wild flowers wave, 
Make ye her mossy grave 

In the free air ! 
Where shower and singing bird 
'Midst the young leaves are heard — 

There, lay her there ! 



(201) 



SISTER! SINCE I MET THEE LAST. 

Sister ! since I met thee last, 
O'er thy brow a change hath past, 
In the softness of thine eyes, 
Deep and still a shadow lies ; 
From thy voice there thrills a tone, 
Never to thy childhood known ; 
Through thy soul a storm hath moved, 

— Gentle sister, thou hast loved ! 

Yes ! thy varying cheek hath caught 
Hues too bright from troubled thought 
Far along the wandering stream, 
Thou art followed by a dream : 
In the woods and valleys lone 
Music haunts thee, not thine own : 
Wherefore fall thy tears like rain ? 

— Sister, thou hast loved in vain ! 

Tell me not the tale, my flower ! 
On my bosom pour that shower ! 
Tell me not of kind thoughts wasted ; 
Tell me not of young hopes blasted ; 
Wring not forth one burning word, 
Let thy heart no more be stirr'd ! 
Home alone can give thee rest. 

— Weep, sweet sister, on my breast ! 



( 202 ) 



THE TRAVELLER'S EVENING SONG. 

Father, guide me ! Day declines, 
Hollow winds are in the pines ; 
Darkly waves each giant bough 
O'er the sky's last crimson glow ; 
Hush'd is now the convent's bell, 
Which erewhile with breezy swell 
From the purple mountains bore 
Greetings to the sunset-shore. 
Now the sailor's vesper-hymn 

Dies away. 
Father ! in the forest dim. 

Be my stay ! 

In the low and shivering thrill 
Of the leaves that late hung still ; 
In the dull and muffled tone 
Of the sea- wave's distant moan ; 
In the deep tints of the sky. 
There are signs of tempest nigh. 
Ominous, with sullen sound. 
Falls the closing dusk around. 
Father ! through the storm and shade 

O'er the wild. 
Oh ! be Thou the lone one's aid — 

Save thy child ! 

Many a swifl and sounding plume 
Homewards, through the boding gloom. 



(203) 

O'er my way hath flitted fast, 
Since the farewell sunbeam pass'd 
From the chesnut's ruddy bark, 
And the pools, now lone and dark. 
Where the wakening night-winds sigh 
Through the long reeds mournfully. 
Homeward, homeward, all things haste- 

God of might ! 
Shield the homeless 'midst the waste, 

Be his light ! 



In his distant cradle nest. 
Now my babe is laid to rest ; 
Beautiful his slumber seems 
With a glow of heavenly dreams, 
Beautiful, o'er that bright sleep, 
Hang soft eyes of fondness deep. 
Where his mother bends to pray. 
For the loved and far away. — 
Father ! guard that household bower, 

Hear that prayer ! 
Back, through thine all-guiding power. 

Lead me there ! 



Darker, wilder, grows the night — 
Not a star sends quivering light 
Through the massy arch of shade 
By the stern old forest made. 
Thou ! to whose unslumbering eyes 
All my pathway open lies, 



(204) 

By thy Son, who knew distress 

In the lonely wilderness. 

Where no roof to that blest head 

Shelter gave — 
Father ! through the time of dread, 

Save, oh ! save ! 



LEAVE ME NOT YET. 

Leave me not yet — through rosy skies from far. 
But now the song-birds to their nests return ; 

The quivering image of the first pale star 
On the dim lake scarce yet begins to burn : 
Leave me not 3^et ! 

Not yet ! — oh, hark ! low tones from hidden streams, 
Piercing the shivery leaves, even now arise ; 

Their voices mingle not with daylight dreams. 
They are of vesper's hymns and harmonies : 
Leave me not yet ! 

My thoughts are like those gentle sounds, dear love ! 

By day shut up in their own. still recess, 
They wait for dews on earth, for stars above, 

Then to breathe out their soul of tenderness : 
Leave me not yet ! 



( 205 ) 



HYMN OF THE VAUDOIS MOUNTAINEERS IN TIMES 
OF PERSECUTION. 

For the strength of the hills we bless thee. 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 
Thou hast made thy children mighty, 

By the touch of the mountain sod. 
Thou hast fix'd our ark of refuge, 

Where the spoiler's foot ne'er trod ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee. 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 

We are watchers of a beacon 

Whose light must never die ; 
We are guardians of an altar 

'Midst the silence of the sky : 
The rocks yield founts of courage, 

Struck forth as by thy rod ; 
For the strength of the hills w^e bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 

For the dark resounding caverns. 

Where thy still, small voice is heard ; 

For the strong pines of the forests. 
That by thy breath are stirr'd ; 

For the storms on whose free pinions 
Thy spirit walks abroad ; 

For the strength of the hills we bless, 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 

18 



( 206 ) 

The royal eagle darteth 

On his quarry from the heights, 
And the stag that knows no master, 

c 

Seeks there his wild delights ; 
But we, for thy communion, 

Have sought the mountain sod ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 

The banner of the chieftain. 

Far, far below us waves ; 
The war-horse of the spearman 

Cannot reach our lofty caves : 
Thy dark clouds wrap the threshold 

Of freedom's last abode ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 

For the shadow of thy presence. 

Round our camp of rock outspread; 
For the stern defiles of battle, 

Bearing record of our dead; 
For the snows and for the torrents. 

For the free heart's burial sod ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee. 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 



(207) 



THE CROSS OF THE SOUTH. 

In the silence and grandeur of midnight I tread, 
Where savannas, in boundless magnificence, spread, 
And bearing sublimely their snow-wreaths on high, 
The far Cordilleras unite with the sky. 

The fir-tree waves o'er me, the fireflies' red light 
With, its quick- glancing splendor illumines the night; 
And I read in each tint of the skies and the earth. 
How distant my steps from the land of my birth. 

But to thee, as thy lode-stars resplendently burn 
In their clear depths of blue, with devotion I turn, 
Bright Cross of the South ! and beholding thee shine. 
Scarce regret the loved land of the olive and vine. 

Thou recallest the ages when first o'er the main 
My fathers unfolded the ensign of Spain, 
And planted their faith in the regions that see 
Its unperishing symbol emblazon' d in thee. 

How ofl in their course o'er the oceans unknown, 
Where all was mysterious, and awful, and lone. 
Hath their spirit been cheer' d by thy light, when the deep 
Reflected its brilliance in tremulous sleep ! 



(208) 

As the vision that rose to the Lord of the world, 
When first his bright banner of faith was unfurl'd ; 
Even such, to the heroes of Spain, when their prow 
Made the billows the path of their glory, wert thou. 

And to me, as I traversed the world of the west, 
Through deserts of beauty in stillness that rest ; 
By forests and rivers untamed in their pride. 
Thy hues have a language, thy course is a guide. 

Shine on — my own land is a far-distant spot. 
And the stars of thy sphere can enlighten it not ; 
And the eyes that I love, though e'en now they may be 
O'er the firmament wandering, can gaze not on thee ! 

But thou to my thoughts art a pure-blazing shrine, 
A fount of bright hopes, and of visions divine; 
And my soul, as an eagle exulting and free, 
Soars high o'er the Andes to mingle with thee. 



THE SISTERS OF SCIO. 

" Sister, sweet Sister ! let me weep awhile ! 

Bear with me — give the sudden passion way ! 
Thoughts of our own lost home, our sunny isle, 

Come, as a wind that o'er a reed hath sway ; 
Till my heart dies with yearnings and sick fears ; — 
Oh ! could my heard melt from me in these tears ! 



(209) 

" Our father's voice, our mother's gentle eye. 

Our brother's bounding step — where are they, where ? 

Desolate, desolate our chambers lie ! 

— How hast thou won thy spirit from despair? 

O'er mine swift shadows, gusts of terror, sweep ; — 

I sink away — bear with me — let me weep !" 

" Yes ! weep, my Sister ! weep, till from thy heart 
The weight flow forth in tears ; yet sink thou not ! 

I bind my sorrow to a lofly part, 

For thee, my gentle one ! our orphan lot 

To meet in quenchless trust ; my soul is strong — 

Thou, too, wilt rise in holy might ere long. 

*^ A breath of our free heavens and noble sires, 
A memory of our old victorious dead, — 

These mantle me with power ! and though their fires 
In a frail censer briefly may be shed. 

Yet shall they light us onward side by side ; — 

Have the wild birds, and have not we^ a guide ? 

" Cheer, then, beloved ! on whose meek brow is set 
Our mother's image — in whose voice a tone, 

A faint sweet sound of hers, is lingering yet. 
An echo of our childhood's music gone ; — 

Cheer thee ! thy Sister's heart and faith are high ; 

Our path is one — with thee I live and die!" 



18* 



(210) 



THE SONG OF NIGHT. 

I COME to thee, O Earth ! 
With all my gifts ! — for every flower sweet dew 
In bell, and urn, and chalice, to renew 

The glory of its birth. 

Not one which glimmering lies 
Far amidst folding hills, or forest leaves, 
But, through its veins of beauty, so receives 

A spirit of fresh dyes, 

I come with every star ; 
Making thy streams, that on their noonday track. 
Give but the moss, the reed, the lily back, 

Mirrors of worlds afar. 

I come with peace : — I shed 
Sleep through thy wood-walks, o'er the honey bee. 
The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's young glee. 

The hyacinth's meek head. 

On m.y own heart I lay 
The weary babe ; and sealing with a breath 
Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath 

The shadowing lids to play. 

I come w4th mightier things ! 
Who calls me silent ? I have many tones — 
The dark skies thrill with low mysterious moans, 

Borne on my sweeping wings. 



( 211 ) 

I wafl them not alone 
From the deep organ of the forest shades, 
Or buried streams, unheard amidst their glades, 

Till the bright day is done ; 

But in the hum.an breast 
A thousand still small voices I awake, 
Strong, in their sweetness, from the soul to shake 

The mantle of its rest. 

I bring them from the past : 
From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn. 
From crush'd affections, which, though long o'er-borne, 

Make their tones heard at last. 

I bring them from the tomb : 
O'er the sad couch of late repentant love 
They pass — though low as murmurs of a dove — 

Like trumpets through the gloom. 

I come with all my train ; 
Who calls me lonely ? — Hosts around me tread. 
The intensely bright, the beautiful, the dead — 

Phantoms of heart and brain ! 

Looks from departed eyes — 
These are my lightnings! — fill'd with anguish vain, 
Or tenderness too piercing to sustain, 

They smite with agonies. 

I, that with sofl control. 
Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song, 
I am the avenging one! — the arm'd, the strong — 

The searcher of the soul ! 



( 212 ) 

I, that shower dewy light 
Through slumbering leaves, bring storms ! — the tempest- 
birth 
Of memory, thought, remorse ; — Be holy, Earth ! 

I am the solemn Nio;ht ! 



CORINNA AT THE CAPITOL. 

Daughter of th' Italian heaven ! 
Thou, to whom its fires are given, 
Joyously thy car hath rolPd 
Where the conqueror's pass'd of old ; 
And the festal sun that shone, 
O'er three hundred triumphs gone. 
Makes thy day of glory bright. 
With a shower of golden light. 

Now thou tread'st th' ascending road. 
Freedom's foot so proudly trode ; 
While, from tombs of heroes borne. 
From the dust of empire shorn. 
Flowers upon thy graceful head, 
Chaplets of all hues, are shed. 
In a soft and rosy rain, 
Touch' d with many a gem-like stain. 
Thou hast gain'd the summit now ! 
Music hails thee from below ; 
Music, whose rich notes might stir 
Ashes of the sepulchre ; 



(213) 

Shaking with victorious notes 
All the bright air as it floats. 
Well may woman's heart beat high 
Unto that proud harmony ! 

Now afar it rolls — it dies — 
And thy voice is heard to rise 
With a low and lovely tone 
In its thrilling power alone ; 
And thy lyre's deep silvery string, 
Touch' d as by a breeze's wing, 
Murmurs tremblingly at first. 
Ere the tide of rapture burst. 

All the spirit of thy sky 
.Now hath lit thy large dark eye, 
And thy cheek a flush hath caught 
From the joy of kindled thought ; 
And the burning words of song 
From thy lip flow fast and strong. 
With a rushing stream's delight 
In the freedom of its might. 

Radiant daughter of the sun ! 

Now thy living wreath is won. 

Crown' d of Rome ! — Oh ! art thou not 

Happy in that glorious lot ? — 

Happier, happier far than thou, 

With the laurel on thy brow. 

She that makes the humblest hearth 

Lovely but to one on earth ! 



(214) 



A PARTING SONG. 

When will ye think of me, my friends ? 

When will ye think of me ? — 
When the last red light, the farewell day, 
From the rock and the river is passmg away — 
When the air with a deepening hush is fraught. 
And the heart grows burden' d wdth tender thought — 

Then let it be ! 

When will ye think of me, kind friends ! 

When will ye think of me ? — 
When the rose of the rich midsummer time 
Is fill'd with the hues of its glorious prime — 
When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled, 
From the walks where my footsteps no more may tread 

Then let it be ! 

When will ye think of me, sweet friends ? 

When will ye think of me? — 
When the sudden tears o'erflow your eye 
At the sound of some olden melody — 
When ye hear the voice of a mountain stream, 
When ye feel the charm of a poet's dream — 

Then let it be ! 

Thus let my memory be with you, friends ! 

Thus ever think of me ! 
Kindly and gently, but as of one 
For whom 'tis well to be fled and gone — 
As of a bird from a chain unbound. 
As of a wanderer whose home is found — 

So let it be. 



(215) 



THE SWITZER'S WIFE. 

It was the time when children bound to meet 
Their father's homeward step from field or hill, 

And when the herd's returning bells are sweet 
In the Swiss valleys, and the lakes grow still, 

And the last note of that wild horn swells by, 

Which haunts the exile's heart with melody. 

And lovely smiled full many an Alpine home, 

Touch'd with the crimson of the dying hour. 
Which lit its low roof by the torrent's foam. 
And pierced its lattice through the vine-hung bower ; 
But one, the loveliest o'er the land that rose. 
Then first look'd mournful in its green repose. 

For Werner sat beneath the linden tree. 

That sent its lulling whispers through his door, 

Even as man sits whose heart alone would be 
With some deep care, and thus can find no more 

Th' accustom'd joy in all which evening brings. 

Gathering a household with her quiet wings. 

His wife stood hush'd before him, — sad, yet mild 
In her beseeching mien;— .he mark'd it not. 

The silvery laughter of his bright-hair'd child 

Rang from the green sward round the shelter' d spot. 

But seem'd unheard ; until at last the boy 

Raised from his heap'd-up flowers a glance of joy. 



(216 ) 

And met his father's face : but then a change 
Pass'd swiftly o'er the brow of infant glee, 

And a quick sense of something dimly strange 
Brought him from play to stand beside the knee 

So often clim.b'd, and lift his loving eyes 

That shone through clouds of sorrowful surprise. 

Then the proud bosom of the strong man shook ; 

But tenderly his babe's fair mother laid 
Her hand on his, and with a pleading look, 

Through tears half quivering, o'er him bent, and said, 
"What grief, dear friend, hath made thy heart its prey, 
That thou shouldst turn thee from our love away? 

" It is too sad to see thee thus, my friend ! 

Mark'st thou the wonder on thy boy's fair brow. 
Missing the smile from thine ? Oh ! cheer thee ! bend 

To his soft arms, unseal thy thoughts e'en now ! 
Thou dost not kindly to withhold the share 
Of tried affection in thy secret care." 

He look'd up into that sweet earnest face, 
But sternly, mournfully : not yet the band 

Was loosen' d from his soul ; its inmost place .^ 

Not yet unveil' d by love's o'ermastering hand. | 

" Speak low !" he cried, and pointed where on high 

The white Alps glitter'd through the solemn sky : 



" We must speak low amidst our ancient hills 
And their free torrents ; for the days are come 

When tyranny lies crouch' d by forest rills. 

And meets the shepherd in his mountain home. 



i 



(217) 

Go, pour the wine of our own grapes in fear, 
Keep silence by the hearth ! its foes are near. 

" The envy of the oppressor's eye hath been 

Upon my heritage. I sit to-night 
Under my household tree, if not serene, 

Yet with the faces best beloved in sight : 
To-morrow eve may find me chain'd, and thee — 
How can I bear the boy's young smiles to see?" 

The bright blood left that youthful mother's cheek ; 

Back on the linden stem she lean'd her form, 
And her lip trembled, as it strove to speak, 

Like a frail harpstring, shaken by the storm. 
'Twas but a moment, and the faintness pass'd. 
And the free Alpine spirit woke at last. 

And she, that ever through her home had moved 
With the meek thought fulness and quiet smile 

Of woman, calmly loving and beloved, 
And timid in her happiness the while. 

Stood brightly forth, and steadfastly, that hour. 

Her clear glance kindling into sudden power. 

A37-e, pale she stood, but with an eye of light, 
And took her fair child to her holy breast. 

And lifted her soft voice, that gather'd might 

As it found language: — "Are we thus oppress' d ? 

Then must we rise upon our mountain-sod, 

And man must arm, and woman call on God ! 

19 



|i (218) 

j; "I know what thou wouldst do, — and be it done! 
ji Tliy soul is darken'd with its fears for me. 
ji Trust me to Heaven, my husband! — this, thy son, 
I The babe whom I have borne thee, must be free ! 

And the sweet memory of our pleasant hearth 
' May well give strength — if aught be strong on earth. 

j " Thou hast been brooding o'er the silent dread 
I Of my desponding tears ; now lift once more, 

My hunter of the hills ! thy stately head, 
I And let thine eagle glance my joy restore! 

I can bear all, but seeing thee subdued, — 
i Take to thee back thine own undaunted mood. 

"Go forth beside the waters, and along 
I ; The chamois paths, and through the forests go ; 
;! And tell, in burning words, thy tale of wrong 
;! To the brave hearts that 'midst the hamlets glow. 
; God shall be with thee, my beloved ! — Aw^ay ! 

Bless but thy child, and leave me, — I can pray!" 

He sprang up like a warrior-youth awaking 
To clarion sounds upon the ringing air ; 

He caught her to his breast, while proud tears breaking 
From his dark eyes, fell o'er her braided hair, — 

And " Worthy art thou," was his joyous cry, 

" That man for thee should gird himself to die. 

" My bride, my wife, the mother of my child ! 

Now shall thy name be armor to my heart ; 
And this our land, by chains no more defiled, 

Be taught of thee to choose the better part ! 



(219) 

I go — thy spirit on my words shall dwell, 

Thy gentle voice shall stir the Alps — Farewell !" 

And thus they parted, by the quiet lake, 

In the clear starlight : he, the strength to rouse 

Of the free hills ; she, thoughtful for his sake. 
To rock her child beneath the whispering boughs. 

Singing its blue, half curtain'd eyes to sleep, 

With a low hymn, amidst the stillness deep. 



TASSO AND HIS SISTER. 

She sat, where on each wind that sigh'd. 

The citron's breath went by. 
While the red gold of eventide 

Burn'd in the Italian sky. 
Her bower was one where daylight's close 

Full of sweet laughter found. 
As thence the voice of childhood rose 

To the high vineyards round. 

But still and thoughtful, at her knee. 

Her children stood that hour. 
Their bursts of song and dancing glee 

Hush'd as by words of power. 
With bright fix'd wondering eyes, that gazed 

Up to their mother's face, 
With brows through parted ringlets raised. 

They stood in silent grace. 



( 220 ) 

While she — yet something o'er her look 

Of mournfulness was spread — 
Forth from a poet's magic book 

The glorious numbers read ; 
The proud undying lay, which pour'd 

Its light on e^'il years ; 
His of the gifted pen and sword. 

The triumph — and the tears. 

She read of fair Erminia's flight, 

Which Venice once might hear 
Sung on her glittering seas at night 

By many a gondolier ; 
Of him she read, who broke the charm 

That wrapt the myrtle grove ; 
Of Godfrey's deeds, of Tancred's arm, 

That slew his Paynim love. 

Young cheeks around that bright page glow'd. 

Young holy hearts were stirr'd ; 
And the meek tears of woman flow'd 

Fast o'er each burning word. 
And sounds of breeze, and fount, and leaf, 

Came sweet, each pause between ; 
When a strange voice of sudden grief 

Burst on the gentle scene. 

The mother turn'd — a wayworn man. 

In pilgrim garb, stood nigh. 
Of stately mien, yet wild and wan, 

Of proud yet mournful eye. 



(221) 

But drops which would not stay for pride 
From that dark eye gush'd free, 

As pressing his pale brow, he cried, 
" Forgotten ! e'en by thee ! 

''Am I so changed? — and yet we too 

Oft hand in hand have play'd ; — 
This brow hath been all bathed in dew. 

From wreaths which thou hast made ; 
We have knelt down and said one prayer, 

And sung one vesper strain ; 
My soul is dim with clouds of care — 

Tell me those words again ! 

" Life hath been heavy on my head, 

I come a stricken deer. 
Bearing the heart, 'midst crowds that bled, 

To bleed in stillness here." 
She gazed, till thoughts that long had slept 

Shook all her thrilling frame — 
She fell upon his neck and wept. 

Murmuring her brother's name. 

Her brother's name ! — and who was he, 

The weary one, th' unknown. 
That came, the bitter world to flee, 

A stranger to his own ? — 
He was the bard of gifts divine 

To sway the souls of men ; 
He of the song for Salem's shrine. 

He of the sword and pen ! 



19* 



( 222 ) 



THE SUNBEAM. 

Thou art no lingerer in monarch's hall — 
A joy thou art, and a wealth to all ! 
A bearer of hope unto land and sea — 
Sunbeam ! what gifl hath the world like thee ! 

Thou art walking the billows, and ocean smiles ; 
Thou hast touch' d with glory his thousand isles ; 
Thou hast lit up the ships, and the feathery foam, 
And gladden'd the sailor, like words from home. 

To the solemn depths of the forest shades. 
Thou art streaming on through their green arcades ; 
And the quivering leaves that have caught thy glow. 
Like fireflies glance to the pools below. 

I look'd on the mountains — a vapour lay 
Folding their heights in its dark array : 
Thou brakest forth, and the mist became 
A crown and a mantle of living flame. 

I look'd on the peasant's lowly cot — 
Something of sadness had wrapt the spot ; 
But a gleam of thee on its lattice fell. 
And it laugh'd into beauty at that bright spell. 

To the earth's wild places a guest thou art, 
Flushing the waste like the rose's heart ; 
And thou scornest not from thy pomp to shed 
A tender smile on the ruin's head. 



( 223 ) 

Thou takest through the dim church aisle thy way 
And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day, 
And its high pale tombs, with their trophies old, 
Are bathed in a flood as of molten gold. 

And thou turnest not from the humblest grave. 
Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave ; 
Thou scatterest its gloom like the dreams of rest, 
Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast. 

Sunbeam of summer ! oh, what is like thee ? 
Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea ! — 
One thing is like thee to mortals given, 
The faith touching all things with hues of heaven ! 



THE DEATH DAY OF KORNER. 

A SONG for the death day of the brave — 

A song of pride ! 
The youth went down to a hero's grave. 

With the Sword, his bride. 

He went, with his noble heart unworn, 

And pure, and high ; 
An eagle stooping from clouds of morn, 

Only to die. 



(224) 

He went with the lyre, whose lofty tone 

Beneath his hand 
Had thriird to the name of his God alone, 

And his father-land. 

And with all his glorious feelings yet 

In their first glow, 
Like a southern stream that no frost hath met 

To chain its flow. 

A song for the death day of the brave — 

A song of pride I 
For him that went to a hero's grave, 

With the Sword, his bride. 

He hath left a voice in his trumpet lays 

To turn the flight, 
And a guiding spirit for after days, 

Like a watchfire's light. 

And a grief in his father's soul to rest, 

'Midst all high thought ; 
And a memory unto his mother's breast 

With healing fraught. 

And a name and fame above the blight 

Of earthly breath, 
Beautiful — beautiful and bright, 

In life and death ! 

A song for the death day of the brave — 

A song of pride ! 
For him that went to a hero's grave. 

With the Sword, his bride ! 



( 225 ) 



THE ADOPTED CHILD. 

" Why wouldst thou leave me, O gentle child ? 
Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild, 
A straw-roof d cabin, with lowly wall — 
Mine is a fair and a pillar' d hall, 
Where many an image of marble gleams, 
And the sunshine of pictures forever streams." 

" Oh ! green is the turf where my brothers play. 

Through the long bright hours of the summer day ; 

They find the red cup-moss where they climb, 

And they chase the bee o'er the scented thyme, 

And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms they know — 

Lady, kind lady ! O, let me go." 

" Content thee, boy ! in my bower to dwell, 
Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well ; 
Flutes on the air in the stilly noon, 
Harps which the wandering breezes tune, 
And the silvery wood-note of many a bird. 
Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountains heard." 

" Oh ! my mother sings, at the twilight's fall, 
A song of the hills far more sweet than all ; 
She sings it under our own green tree. 
To the babe half slumbering on her knee ; 
I dreamt last night of that music low — 
Lady, kind lady ! O, let me go." 



(226) 

" Thy mother is gone from her cares to rest, 

She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast 

Thou would'st meet her footstep, my boy, no more, 

Nor hear her song at the cabin door. 

Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh, 

And we'll pluck the grapes of the richest dye." 

" Is my mother gone from her home away? — 

But I know that my brothers are there at play — 

I know they are gathering the foxglove's bell, 

Or the long fern leaves by the sparkling well ; 

Or they launch their boats where the bright streams flow- 

Lady, kind lady ! O, let me go." 

" Fair child, thy brothers are wanderers now, 
They sport no more on the mountain's brow ; 
They have lefl the fern by the spring's green side. 
And the stream where the fairy barks were tried. 
Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot. 
For thy cabin home is a lonely spot." 

''Are they gone, all gone from the sunny hill? — 
But the bird and the blue-fly rove o'er it still : 
And the red-deer bound in their gladness free. 
And the heath is bent by the singing bee, 
And the waters leap, and the fresh winds blow — 
Lady, kind lady ! O, let me go," 



( 227 ) 



ROMAN GIRL'S SONG 

Rome, Rome ! thou art no more 

As thou hast been ! 
On thy seven hills of yore 

Thou satt'st a queen. 

Thou hadst thy triumphs then 

Purpling the street, 
Leaders and sceptred men 

Bow'd at thy feet. 

They that thy mantle wore, 

As gods were seen — 
Rome, Rome ! thou art no more 

As thou hast been ! 

Rome ! thine imperial brow 

Never shall rise : 
What hast thou left thee now ? — 

Thou hast thy skies ! 

Blue, deeply blue, they are. 

Gloriously bright ! 
Veiling thy wastes afar 

With color'd light. 

Thou hast the sunset's glow, 

Rome, for thy dower. 
Flushing tall cypress bough. 

Temple and tower ! 



( 228) 

And all sweet sounds are thine, 

Lovely to hear, 
While night, o'er tomb and shrine, 

Rests darkly clear. 

Many a solemn hymn, 

By starlight sung, 
Sweeps through the arches dim, 

Thy wrecks among. 

Many a flute's low swell, 

On thy soft air 
Lingers, and loves to dwell 

With summer there. 

Thou hast the south's rich gift 

Of sudden song — 
A charmed fountain, swift, 

Joyous, and strong. 

Thou hast fair forms that move 

With queenly tread ; 
Thou hast proud fanes above 

Thy mighty dead. 

Yet wears thy Tiber's shore 

A mournful mien : — 
Rome, Rome ! thou art no more 

As thou hast been ! . 



( 229 ) 



ENGLAND'S DEAD. 



Son of the ocean isle ! 
Where sleep your mighty dead? 
Show me what high and stately pile 
Is reard o'er Glory's bed. 

Go, stranger ! track the deep 
Free, free the white sail spread ! 
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, 
Where rest not England's -dead. 

On Egypt's burning plains, 
By the pyramid o'ersway'd. 
With fearful power the noonday reigns. 
And the palm trees yield no shade. 

But let the angry sun 
From heaven look fiercely red, 
Unfelt by those whose task is done ! — 
There slumber England's dead. 

The hurricane hath might 
Along the Indian shore, 
And far by Ganges' banks at night. 
Is heard the tiger's roar. 

But let the sound roll on ! 
It hath no tone of dread. 
For those that from their toils are gone ; — 
There slumber England's dead. 

20 



( 230 ) 

Loud rush the torrent-floods 
The western wilds among, 
And free, in green Columbia's woods. 
The hunter's bow is strung. 

But let the floods rush on ! 
Let the arrow's flight be sped ! 
Why should they reck whose task is done ? - 
There slumber England's dead ! 

The mountain-storms rise high 
In the snowy Pyrenees, 
And toss the pine boughs through the sky. 
Like rose leaves on the breeze. 

But let the storm rage on ! 
Let the fresh wreaths be shed ! 
For the Roncesvalles' field is won, — r 
There slumber England's dead. 

On the frozen deeps repose 
'Tis a dark and dreadful hour. 
When round the ship the ice-fields close, 
And the northern night-clouds lower. 

But let the ice drifl: on ! 
Let the cold-blue desert spread ! 
Their course with mast and flag is done, — 
Even there sleeps England's dead. 

The warlike of the isles. 
The men of field and wave ! 
Are not the rocks their funeral piles, 
The seas and shores their grave ! 



( 231 ) 

Go, stranger ! track the deep, 
Free, free the white sail spread ! 
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep. 
Where rest not England's dead. 



ITALIAN GIRL'S HYMN TO THE VIRGIN. 

In the deep hour of dreams, 
Through the dark woods, and past the moaning sea, 

And by the star-light gleams, 
Mother of Sorrows ! lo, I come to thee. 

Unto thy shrine I bear 
Night'blowing flowers, like my own heart, to lie 

All, all unfolded there. 
Beneath the meekness of thy pitying eye. 

For thou, that once didst move. 
In thy still beauty, through an early home. 

Thou know'st the grief, the love, 
The fear of woman's soul ; to thee I come ! 

Many, and sad, and deep. 
Were the thoughts folded in thy silent breast ; 

Thou, too, couldst watch and weep — 
Hear, gentlest mother ! hear a heart oppressed ! 

There is a wandering bark 
Bearing one Irom me o'er the restless waves ; 

Oh I let thy soft eye mark 
His course ; — be with him. Holiest, guide and save ! 



( 232 ) 

3Iy soul is on that way ; 
My thoughts are travellers o'er the waters dim, 

Through the long weary day, 
I walk, o'ershadow'd by vain dreams of him. 

Aid him, and me, too, aid ! 
: Oh ! 'tis not well, this earthly love's excess ! 
On thy weak child is laid 
The burden of too deep a tenderness. 

Too much o'er him is pour'd 
My being's hope — scarce leaving Heaven a part ; 

Too fearfully adored. 
Oh ! make not him the chastener of my heart ! 

I tremble with a sense 
Of grief to be ; I hear a warning low — 

Sweet mother ! call me hence ! 
This wild idolatry must end in woe. 

The troubled joy of life. 
Love's lightning happiness, my soul hath known ; 

And, worn with feverish strife, 
Would fold its wings ; — take back, take back thine own ! 

Hark ! how the wind swept by ! 
The tempest's voice comes rolling o'er the v/ave — 

Hope of tho sailor's eye. 
And maidQn's heart, blest mother, guide and save ! 



( 233 ) 



THE DIVER. 

Thou hast been where the rocks of coral grow, 
Thou hast fought with eddying waves ; — 

Thy cheek is pale, and thy heart beats low, 
Thou searcher of ocean's caves ! 

Thou hast look'd on the gleaming wealth of old, 
And wrecks where the brave have striven : 

The deep is a strong and fearful hold. 
But thou its bar hast riven ! 

A wild and weary life is thine : 

A wasting task and lone, 
Though treasure- grots for thee may shine. 

To all besides unknown ! 

A weary life ! but a swift decay 

Soon, soon shall set thee free ; 
Thou 'rt passing fast from thy toils away, 

Thou wrestler with the sea ! 

In thy dim eye, on thy hollow cheek. 

Well are the death-signs read — 
Go ! for the pearl in its cavern seek. 

Ere hope and power be fled ! 

And bright in beauty's coronal 

That glistening gem shall be ; 
A star to all in the festive hall — 

But who will think on thee 1 

20* 



(234) 

None ! — as it gleams from the queen-like head, 

Not one 'midst throngs will say, 
'* A life hath been like a rain-drop shed. 

For that pale quivering ray." 

Woe for the wealth thus dearly bought ! 

— And are not tnose like thee, 
Who win for earth the gems of thought? 

O wrestler with the sea ! 

Down to the gulfs of the soul they go, 

Where the passion-fountains burn, 
Gathering the jewels far below 

From many a buried urn : 

Wringing from lava veins the fire. 

That o'er bright words is pour'd ; 
Learning deep sounds, to make the lyre 

A spirit in each chord. 

But, oh ! the price of bitter tears. 

Paid for the lonely power 
That throws at last o'er desert years, 

A darkly glorious dower ! 

Like flower seeds, by the wild wind spread, 

So radiant thoughts are strew' d ; 
— The soul whence those high gifts are shed. 

May faint in solitude ! 

And who will think, when the strain is sung 

Till a thousand hearts are stirr'd. 
What life-drops, from the minstrel wrung. 

Have gush'd with every word ? 



( 235 ) 

None, none ! — his treasures live like thine. 

He strives and dies like thee ; 
— Thou, that hast been to the pearl's dark shrine, 

O wrestler with the sea ! 



THE ANTIQUE SEPULCHRE. 

O EVER joyous band 
Of revellers amidst the southern vines ! 
On the pale marble, by some gifted hand, 

Fix'd in undying lines ! 

Thou, with the sculptured bowl, 
And thou, that wearest the immortal wreath, 
And thou, from whose young lip and flute, the soul 

Of music seems to breathe ; 

And ye, luxuriant flowers ! 
Linking the dancers with your graceful ties. 
And cluster'd fruitage, born of sunny hours. 

Under Italian skies : 

Ye, that a thousand springs. 
And leafy summers with their odorous breath. 
May yet outlast, — what do ye there, bright things ! 

Mantling the place of death ? 

Of sunlight and soil air, 
And Dorian reeds, and myrtles ever green, 
Unto the heart a glowing thought ye bear ; — 

Why thus, where dust hath been? 



(236 ) 

Is it to show how slight 
The bond that severs festivals and tombs, 
Music and silence, roses and the blight, 

Crowns and sepulchral glooms ? 

Or when the father laid 
Haply his child's pale ashes here to sleep. 
When the friend visited the cypress shade, 

Flowers o'er the dead to heap ; 

Say if the mourners sought. 
In these rich images of summer mirth. 
These wine-cups and gay wreaths, to lose the thought 

Of our last hour on earth ? 

Ye have no voice, no sound. 
Ye flutes and lyres, to tell me what I seek ; 
Silent ye are, light forms with vine leaves crown' d, 

Yet to my soul ye speak. 

Alas ! for those that lay 
Down in the dust without their hope of old ! 
Backward they look'd on life's rich banquet-day. 

But all beyond was cold. 

Every sweet wood-note then. 
And through the plane trees every sunbeam's glow, 
And each glad murmur from the homes of men, 

Made it more hard to go. 

But we, when life grows dim, 
When its last melodies float o'er our way. 
Its changeful hues before us faintly swim. 
Its flitting lights decay ; — 



(237) 

E'en though we bid farewell 
Unto the spring's blue skies and budding trees. 
Yet may we lift our hearts, in hope to dwell 

'Midst brighter things than these. 

And think of deathless flowers, 
And of bright streams to glorious valleys given, 
And know the while, how little dream of ours 

Can shadow forth of Heaven. 



CCEUR DE LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER, 

Torches were blazing clear, 

Hymns pealing deep and slow, 
Where a king lay stately on his bier 

In the church of Fontevraud. 
Banners of battle o'er him* hung, 

And warriors slept beneath, 
And light as noon's broad light was flung 

On the settled face of death. 

On the settled face of death 

A strong and ruddy glare. 
Though dimm'd at times by the censer's breath, 

Yet it fell still brightest there : 
As if each deeply farrow' d trace 

Of earthly years to show, — 
Alas ! that sceptred mortal's race 

Had surely closed in woe ! 



(238 ) 

The marble fiooi' was swept 

By many a long dark stole, 
As the kneeling priests, round him that slept. 

Sang mass for the parted soul : 
And solemn were the strains they pour'd 

Through the ctillness of the night, 
With the cross above, and the crown and sword, 

And the silent king in sight. 

There was heard a heavy clang, 

As of steel-girt men the tread, 
And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang 

With a sounding thrill of dread ; 
And the holy chant was hush'd awhile 

As, by the torch's flame, 
A gleam of arms up the sweeping aisle, 

With a mail-clad leader came. 

He came with hai^ghty look. 

An eagle-glance and clear ; 
But his proud heart through its breastplate shook. 

When he stood beside the bier ! 
He stood there still with a drooping brow. 

And clasp'd hands o'er it raised ; — 
For his father lay before him low. 

It was Cogur de Lion gazed ! 

And silently he strove 
With the workings of his breast ; 
But there's more in late repentant love 
Than steel may keep suppress' d ! 



( 239 ) 

And his tears brake forth, at last, like rain, = 
Men held their breath in awe, 

For his face was seen by his warrior-train, 
And he reck'd not that they saw. 

He look'd upon the dead, 

And sorrow seem'd to lie, 
A weight of sorrow, even like lead, 

Pale on the fast-shut eye. 
He stoop' d and kiss'd the frozen cheek. 

And the heavy hand of clay, 
Till bursting words — yet all too weak — 

Gave his soul's passion way. 

" Oh, father ! is it vain. 

This late remorse and deep ? 
Speak to me, father ! once again, 

I weep — behold, I weep ! 
Alas ! my guilty pride and ire ! 

Were but this work undone, 
I would give England's crown, my sire ! 

To hear thee bless thy son. 

" Speak, to me ! mighty grief 

Ere now the dust hath stirr'd ! 
Hear me, but hear me ! — father, chief, 

My king ! I must be heard ! — 
Hush'd, hush'd — how is it that I call, 

And that thou answerest not ? 
When was it thus, woe, woe for all 

The love my soul forgot ! 



(240) 

" Thy silver hairs I see. 

So still, so sadly bright ! 
And father, father ! but for me, 

They had not been so white ! 
/ bore thee down, high heart ! at last. 

No lor^ger couldst thou strive ; — 
Oh ! for one moment of the past, 

To kneel and say — ' forgive !' 

" Thou wert the noblest king. 

On royal throne e'er seen ; 
And thou didst wear in knightly ring. 

Of all, the stateliest mien ; 
And thou didst prove, where spears are proved, 

In war, the bravest heart — 
Oh ! ever the renown'd and loved 

Thou wert — and there thou art ! 

" Thou that my boyhood's guide 

Didst take fond joy to be ! — 
The times I 've sported at thy side. 

And climb' d thy parent knee ! 
And there before the blessed shrine^ 

My sire ! I see thee lie, — 
How will that sad still face of thine 

Look on me till I die !" 



(241) 



THE SULIOTE MOTHER. 

She stood upon the loftiest peak, 

Amidst the clear blue sky : 
A bitter smile was on her cheek, 

And a dark flash in her eye. 

"Dost thou see them, boy? — through the dusky pines 
Dost thou see where the foeman's armor shines ? 
Hast thou caught the gleam of the conqueror's crest ? 
My babe, that I cradled on my breast ! 
Wouldst thou spring from thy mother's arms with joy ? 
— That sight hath cost thee a father, boy!" 

For in the rocky strait beneath. 

Lay Suliote sire and son : 
They had heap'd high the piles of death 

Before the pass was won. 

" They have cross' d the torrent, and on they come ! 
Woe for the mountain hearth and home ! 
There, where the hunter laid by his spear. 
There, where the lyre hath been sweet to hear. 
There, where I sang thee, fair babe ! to sleep, 
Naught but the blood-stain our trace shall keep !" 

And now the horn's loud blast was heard. 

And now the cymbal's clang. 
Till even the upper air was stirr'd, 

As cliff and hollow rang. 

21 



(242) 

" Hark ! they bring music, my joyous child ! 

What saith the trumpet to Suli's wild ! 

Doth it light thine eye with so quick a fire, 

As if at a glance of thine armed sire? — 

Still! — be thou still! — there are brave men low — 

Thou wouldst not smile couldst thou see him now ! 

But nearer came the clash of steel, 

And louder swell'd the horn. 
And farther yet the tambour's peal 

Through the dark pass was borne. 

" Hear' St thou the sound of their savage mirth ? — 
Boy ! thou wert free when I gave thee birth, — 
Free, and how cherish'd, my warrior's son ! 
He too hath bless'd thee, as I have done ! 
Aye, and unchain'd must his loved ones be — 
Freedom, young Suliote ! for thee and me !" 

And from the arrowy peak she sprung, 

And fast the fair child bore : — 
A veil upon the wind was flung, 

A cry — and all was o'er ! 



( 243 ) 



THE CRUSADER'S RETURN. 

Rest, pilgrim, rest ! — thou 'rt from the Syrian land. 

Thou 'rt from the wild and wondrous east, 1 know- 
By the long-wither'd palm branch in thy hand, 

And by the darkness of thy sunburnt brow. 
Alas ! the bright, the beautiful, who part 

So full of hope, for that far country's bourne ! 
Alas ! the weary and the changed in heart. 

And dimm'd in aspect, who like thee return ! 

Thou 'rt faint — stay, rest thee from thy toils at last : 

Through the high chesnuts lightly plays the breeze. 
The stars gleam out, the Ave hour is past. 

The sailor's hymn hath died along the seas. 
Thou art faint and worn — hear'st thou the fountain welling 

By the grey pillars of yon ruin'd shrine? 
Seest thou the dewy grapes before thee swelling? 

— He that hath left me train'd that loaded vine ! 

He was a child when thus the bower he wove, 

(Oh ! hath a day fled since his childhood's time ?) 
That I might sit and hear the sound I love. 

Beneath its shade — the convent's vesper-chime. 
And sit tJiou there ! — for he was gentle ever, 

With his glad voice he would have welcomed thee, 
And brought fresh fruits to cool thy parch'd lips' fever — 

There in his place thou 'rt resting — where is he? 



( 244 ) 

If I could hear that laughing voice again, 

But once again ! — how oft it wanders by, 
In the still hours, like some remember' d strain, 

Troubling the heart with its wild melody ! — 
Thou hast seen much, tired pilgrim ! hast thou seen 

In that fair land, the chosen land of yore, 
A youth — my Guido — with the fiery mien 

And the dark eye of this Italian shore ? 

The dark, clear, lightning eye ! — on heaven and earth 

It smiled — as if man were not dust it smiled ! 
The very air seem'd kindling with his mirth. 

And I — my heart grew young before my child ! 
My bless' d child! — I had but him — yet he 

Fill'd all my home even with o'erflowing joy. 
Sweet laughter, and wild song, and footstep free — 

Where is he now ? — my pride, my flower, my boy ! 

His sunny childhood melted from my sight, 

Like a spring dew drop — then his forehead wore 
A prouder look — his eye a keener light — 

I knew these woods might be his world no more ! 
He loved me — but he left me ! — thus they go 

Whom we have rear'd, watch'd, bless'd, too much adored ! 
He heard the trumpet of the Red-Cross blow. 

And bounded from with his father's sword ! 

Thou weep'st ! — I tremble — thou hast seen the slain 
Pressing a bloody turf; the young and fair. 

With their pale beauty strewing o'er the plain 

Where hosts have met — speak! answer! — was he there? 



I ( 245 ) 

! Oh ! hath his smile departed ? — Could the grave 

Shut o'er those bursts of bright and tameless glee? 

No! I shall yet behold his dark locks wave — 
That look gives hope — I knew it could not be! 

Still weep'st thou, wanderer ? — some fond mother's glance 

O'er thee, too, brooded in thine early years — 
Think'st thou of her, whose gentle eye, perchance, 

Bathed all thy faded hair, with parting tears? 
Speak, for thy tears disturb me ! — what art thou ? 

Why dost thou hide thy face, yet weeping on? 
Look up ! — oh ! is it — that wan cheek and brow ! 

Is it — alas ! yet joy ! — my son, my son ! 



CASABIANCA. 

The boy stood on the burning deck 

Whence all but he had fled ; 
The flame that lit the battle's wreck, 

Shone round him o'er the dead. 

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, 

As born to rule the storm ; 
A creature of heroic blood, 

A proud, though child-like form. 

The flames roll'd on — he would not go 

Without his Father's word ; 
That Father, faint in death below. 

His voice no longer heard. 

21'' 



( 246 ) 

He caird aloud: — "Say, Father, say 

If yet my task is done ?" 
He knew not that the chieftain lay 

Unconscious of his son. 



" Speak, Father !" once again he cried, 

" If I may yet be gone !" 
And but the booming shots replied, 

x\nd fast the flames roU'd on. 

Upon his brow he felt their breath, 

And in his waving hair, 
And look'd from that lone post of death, 

In still, yet brave despair. 

And shouted but once more aloud, 

" My Father ! must I stay ?" 
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, 

The wreathing fires made way. 

They wrapt the ship in splendor wild. 

They caught the flag on high. 
And stream'd above the gallant child. 

Like banners in the sky. 

There came a burst of thunder sound — 

The boy — oh ! where was he ? 
Ask of the winds that far around 

With fragments strew' d the sea ! — 



(247 ) 

With mast and helm, and pennon fair, 
That well had bore their part — 

But the noblest thing which perish' d there 
Was that young faithful heart! 



THE HEBREW MOTHER. 

The rose was in rich bloom on Sharon's plain. 

When a young mother, with her first-born, thence 

Went up to Zion ; for the boy was vow'd 

Unto the Temple service : — by the hand 

She led him, and her silent soul, the while, 

Ofl as the dewy laughter of his eye 

Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think 

That aught so pure, so beautiful, was hers, 

To bring before her God. So pass'd they on 

O'er Judah's hills ; and wheresoe'er the leaves 

Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon. 

Like lulling rain drops, or the olive boughs. 

With their cool dimness, crossed the sultry blue 

Of Syria's heaven, she paused, that he might rest : 

Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep 

That weigh'd their dark fringe down, to sit and watch 

The crimson deepening o'er his cheek's repose, 

As at a red flower's heart. And where a fount 

Lay, like a twilight star, 'midst palmy shades, 

Making its bank green gems along the wild, 

There, too, she linger' d, from the diamond wave 

Drawing bright water for his rosy lips. 

And soflly parting clusters of jet curls 



( 248 ) 

To bathe his brow. At last the fane was reach' d, 
The earth's one sanctuary — and rapture hush'd 
Her bosom, as before her, through the day, 
It rose, a mountain of white marble, steep'd 
In light like floating gold. But when that hour 
Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy 
Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye 
Beseechingly to hers, and half in fear 
Turn'd from the white-robed priest, and round her arm 
Clung even as joy clings — the deep spring-tide 
Of nature then swell'd high, and o'er her child 
Bending, her soul broke forth, in mingled sounds 
Of weeping and sad song. — "Alas!" she cried, — 

" Alas ! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me ; 
The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes ; 

And now fond thoughts arise. 
And silver cords again to earth have won me ; 
And like a vine thou claspest my full heart — 

How shall I hence depart ? 

" How the lone paths retrace where thou wert playing 
So late along the mountains, at my side ? 

And I, in joyous pride. 
By every place of flowers my course delaying, 
Wove, e'en as pearls, the lilies round thy hair, 

Beholding thee so fair ! 

" And, oh ! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted. 
Will it not seem as if the sunny day 

Turn'd from its door away ? 
While through its chambers wandering, weary hearted, 
I languish for thy voice, which past me still 

Went like a singing rill ? 



(249) 

" Under the palm trees thou no more shalt meet me, 
When from the fount at evening I return, 

With the full water-urn ; 
Nor will thy sleep's low dove-like breathings greet me, 
As 'midst the silence of the stars I wake, 

And watch for thy dear sake. 

" And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee. 
Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed? 

Wilt thou not vainly spread 
Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound thee. 
To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear, 

A cry which none shall hear? 

"What have I said, my child! — Will He not hear thee. 
Who the young ravens heareth from their nest ? 

Shall He not guard thy rest. 
And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee. 
Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill thy dreams with joy ? 

Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy. 

''I give thee to thy God — the God that gave thee, 
A well-spring of deep gladness, to my heart ! 

And, precious as thou art. 
And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee, 
My own, my beautiful, my undefiled ! 

And thou shalt be His child. 

" Therefore, farewell ! — I go, my soul may fail me, 
As the hart panteth for the water brooks, 

Yearning for thy sweet looks. 
But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail me ; 
Thou in the Shadow of the Rock shalt dwell. 

The Rock of Strength. — Farewell !" 



( 250 ) 



NO MORE. 

No more ! a harp-string's deep and breaking tone, 
A last low summer breeze, a far-off swell, 

A dying echo of rich music gone, 

Breathe through those words — those murmurs of farewell ; 

No more ! 

To dwell in peace, with home affections bound, 
To know the sweetness of a mother's voice. 

To feel the spirit of her love around. 

And in the blessing of her eye rejoice — 

No more ! 

A dirge -like sound ! to greet the early friend 
Unto the hearth, his place of many days ; 

In the glad song with kindred lips to blend, 
Or join the household laughter by the blaze — 

No more ! 

Through woods that shadow' d our first years to rove, 

With all our native music in the air ; 
To watch the sunset with the eyes we love, 

And turn, and read our own heart's answer there — 

No more ! 

Words of despair! yet earth's, all earth's — the woe 
Their passion breathes — the desolately deep ! 

That sound in Heaven — oh ! image then the flow 
Of gladness in its tones — to part, to weep — 

No more ! 



(251) 

To watch, in dying hope, affection's wane, 

To see the beautiful from life depart, 
To wear impatiently a secret chain. 

To waste the untold riches of the heart — 

No more ! 

Through long, long years to seek, to stiive, to yearn 
For human love — and never quench that thirst. 

To pour the soul out, winning no return. 
O'er fragile idols, by delusion nursed — 

No more 

On things that fail us, reed by reed, to lean, 
To mourn the changed, the far away, the dead ; 

To send our troubled spirits through the unseen 
Intensely questioning for treasures fled — 

No more ! 

Words of triumphant music — bear we on 

The weight of life, the chain, the ungenial air ; 

Their deathless meaning, when our tasks are done. 
To learn in joy ; — to struggle, to despair — 

No more ! 



( 252 ) 



THE MESSENGER BIRD. 

Thou art come from the spirits' land, thou bird ! 

Thou art come from the spirits' land : 
Through the dark pine grove let thy voice be heard. 

And tell of the shadowy band ! 

We know that the bowers are green and fair 

In the light of that summer shore, 
And we know that the friends we have lost are there, 

They are there — and they weep no more ! 

And we know they have quench'd their fever's thirst- 
From the Fountain of youth ere now, 

For there must the stream in its freshness burst 
Which none may find below ! 

And we know that they will not be lured to earth 

From the land of deathless flowers. 
By the feast, or the dance, or the song of mirth. 

Though their hearts were once with ours : 

Though they sat with us by the night-fire's blaze, 

And bent with us the bow. 
And heard the tales of our fathers' days. 

Which are told to others now ! 

But tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain ! 

Can those who have love forget? 
We call — and they answer not again — 

Do they love — do they love us yet ? 



J 



(253) 

Doth the warrior think of his brother thercy 

And the father of his child 1 
And the chief, of those that were wont to share 

His wandering through the wild ? 

We call them far through the silent night, 
And they speak not from cave or hill ; 

We know, thou bird ! that their land is bright, 
But say, do they love there still 1 



WOMAN AND FAME. 

Thou hast a charmed cup O Fame ! 

A draught that mantles high, 
And seems to lift this earthly frame 

Above mortality. 
Away ! to me — a woman — bring 
Sweet waters from affection's spring. 

Thou hast green laurel leaves, that twine 

Into so proud a wreath ; 
For that resplendent gift of thine. 

Heroes have smiled in death : 
Give me from some kind hand a flower, 
The record of one happy hour ! 

Thou hast a voice, whose thrilling tone 

Can bid each life-pulse beat 
As when a trumpet's note hath blown, 

Calling the brave to meet : 



22 



( 254 ) 

But mine, let mine — a woman's breast, 
By words of home-born love be bless' d. 

A hollow sound is in thy song, 

A mockery in thine eye, 
To the sick heart that doth but long 

For aid, for sympathy — 
For kindly looks to cheer it on. 
For tender accents that are gone. 

Fame, Fame ! thou canst not be the stay 

Unto the drooping reed. 
The cool fresh fountain in the day 

Of the soul's feverish need : 
Where must the lone one turn or flee T — 
Not unto thee — oh 1 not to thee ! 



THE IMAGE IN LAVA.* 

Thou thing of years departed ! 

What ages have gone by. 
Since here the mournful seal was set 

By love and agony? 

Temple and tower have moulder'd. 
Empires from earth have pass'd, 

And woman's heart hath left a trace 
Those glories to outlast ! 



* The impression of a woman's form, with an infant clasped to the 
bosom, found at the uncovering of Herculaneum, 



( 255 ) 

And childhood's fragile image, 

Thus fearfully enshrined, 
Survives the proud memorials rear'd 

By conquerors of mankind. 

Babe ! wert thou brightly slumbering 

Upon thy mother's breast, 
When suddenly the fiery tomb 

Shut round each gentle guest? 

A strange, dark fate o'ertook you, 
Fair babe and loving heart ! 

One moment of a thousand pangs — 
Yet better than to part 1 

Haply of that fond bosom 

On ashes here impress'd. 
Thou wert the only treasure, child ! 

Whereon a hope might rest. 

Perchance all vainly lavished 

Its other love had been. 
And where it trusted, naught remained 

But thorns on which to lean. 

Far better, then, to perish, 

Thy form within its clasp, 
Than live and lose thee, precious one ! 

From that impassion'd grasp. 

Oh ! I could pass all relics 

Left by the pomps of old, 
To gaze on this rude monument 

Cast in affection's mould. 



( 256) 

Love, human love ! what art thou ? 

Thy prmt upon the dust 
Outlives the cities of renown 

Wherein the mighty trust ! 

Immortal, oh ! immortal 

Thou art, whose earthly glow 

Hath given these ashes holiness — 
It must, it must be so ! 



PASSING AWAY. 

It is written on the rose 

In its glory's full array — 
Read what those buds disclose — 

" Passing away." 

It is written on the skies 

Of the soft blue summer day ; 
It is traced in sunset's dyes — 

" Passing away." 

It is written on the trees. 

As their young leaves glistening play, 
And on brighter things than these — 

" Passing away." 

It is written on the brow 

Where the spirit's ardent ray 
Lives, burns, and triumphs now — 

" Passing away." 



( 257 ) 

It is written on the heart — 

Alas ! that there Decay 
Should claim from Love a part — 

" Passing away." 

Friends, friends ! — oh ! shall we meet 

In a land of purer day, 
Where lovely things and sweet 

Pass not away ? 

Shall we know each other's eyes, 

And the thoughts that in them lay, 
When we mingled sympathies — 

" Passing away ?" 

Oh ! if this may be so, 

Speed, speed, thou closing day ! 
How blest, from earth's vain show 

To pass away ! 



22* 



( 258 ) 



PARTING WORDS. 

Leave me, oh ! leave me ! — unto all below 
Thy presence binds me with too deep a spell ; 
Thou makest those mortal regions, whence I go. 
Too mighty in their loveliness — farewell, 
That I may part in peace ! 

Leave me ! — thy footstep, with its lightest sound. 
The very shadow of thy waving hair. 
Wakes in my soul a feeling too profound. 
Too strong for aught that loves and dies, to bear — 
Oh ! bid the conflict cease ! 

I hear thy whisper — and the warm tears gush 
Into mine eyes, the quick pulse thrills my heart ; 
Thou bid'st the peace, the reverential hush. 
The still submission, from my thoughts depart ; 
Dear one ! this must not be. 

The past looks on me from thy mournful eye. 
The beauty of our free and vernal days ; 
Our communings with sea, and hill, and sky — 
Oh ! take that bright world from my spirit's gaze ! 
Thou art all earth to me ! 

Shut out the sunshine from my dying room, 
The jasmine's breath, the murmur of the bee ; 



( 259 ) 

Let not the joy of bird-notes pierce the gloom ! 
They speak of love, of summer, and of thee, 
Too much — and death is here ! 

Doth our own spring make happy music now, 
From the old beach-roots flashing into day ? 
Are the pure lilies imaged in its flow ? 
Alas ! vain thoughts ! that fondly thus can stray 
From the dread hour so near ! 

If I could but draw courage from the light 
Of thy clear eye, that ever shone to bless 1 

— Not now ! 'twill not be now ! — my aching sight 
Drinks from that fount a flood of tenderness. 

Bearing all strength away ! 

Leave me ! thou comest between my heart and Heaven ! 
I would be still, in voiceless prayer to die ! 

— Why must our souls thus love, and then be riven ? 

— Return ! thy parting wakes mine agony ! 

— Oh, yet awhile delay ! 



(260 ) 



A THOUGHT OF THE FUTURE. 

Dreamer ! and would' st thou know 
If love goes with us to the viewless bourne ? 
Would' st thou bear hence th' unfathom'd source of woe 

In thy heart's lonely urn ? 

What hath it been to thee, 
That power, the dweller of thy secret breast ? 
A dove sent forth across a stormy sea, 

Finding no place of rest : 

A precious odor cast 
On a wild stream, that recklessly swept by ; 
A voice of music utter' d to the blast. 

And winning no reply. 

Even were such answer thine — 
Would' st thou be bless' d ? — too sleepless, too profound. 
Are the soul's hidden springs ; there is no line 

Their depth of love to sound. 

Do not words faint and fail 
When thou would' st fill them with that ocean's power ? 
As thine own cheek, before high thoughts grows pale 

In some o'erwhelming hour. 



(261) 

Doth not thy frail form sink 
Beneath the chain that binds thee to one spot. 
When thy heart strives, held down by many a link, 

Where thy beloved are not ? 

Is not thy very soul 
Oft in the gush of powerless blessing shed. 
Till a vain tenderness, beyond control. 

Bows down thy weary head? 

And would'st thou bear all this — 
The burden and the shadow of thy life — 
To trouble the blue skies of cloudless bliss 

With earthly feehngs' strife? 

Not thus, not thus — oh, no ! 
Not veil'd and mantled with dim clouds of care, 
That spirit of my soul should with me go 

To breathe celestial air. 

But as the skylark springs 
To its own sphere, where night afar is driven. 
As to its place the flower-seed findeth wings, 

So must love mount to heaven ! 

Vainly it shall not strive 
There on weak words to pour a stream of fire ; 
Thought unto thought shall kindling impulse give. 

As light might wake a lyre. 

And oh ! its blessings ihere^ 
Shower'd like rich balsam forth on some dear head. 
Powerless no more, a gift shall surely bear, 

A joy of sunlight shed. 



( 262 ) 

Let me, then — let me dream 
That love goes with us to the shore unknown ; 
So o'er its burning tears a heavenly gleam 

In mercy shall be thrown ! 



THE SILENT MULTITUDE. 

A MIGHTY and a mingled throng 

Were gather' d in one spot ; 
The dwellers of a thousand homes — 

Yet 'midst them voice was not. 

The soldier and his chief were there — 

The mother and her child : 
The friends, the sisters of one hearth — 

None spoke — none moved — none smiled. 

There lovers met, between whose lives 

Years had swept darkly by ; 
After that heart-sick hope deferr'd — 

They met — but silently. 

You might have heard the rustling leaf. 

The breeze's faintest sound, 
The shiver of an insect's wing. 

On that thick-peopled ground. 

Your voice to whispers would have died. 

For the deep quiet's sake ; 
Your tread the softest moss have sought, 

Such stillness not to break. 



( 263 ) 

What held the countless multitude 
Bound in that spell of peace ? 

How could the ever-sounding life 
Amid so many cease ? 

Was it some pageant of the air — 

Some glory high above, 
That link'd and hush'd those human souls 

In reverential love ? 

Or did some burdening passion's weight 
Hang on their indrawn breath? 

Awe — the pale awe that freezes words ? 
Fear — the strong fear of death ? 

A mightier thing — Death, Death himself 

Lay on each lonely heart ! 
Kindred were there — yet hermits all — 

Thousands, but each apart. 



(264) 



SONG OF A GUARDIAN SPIRIT. 

Oh ! droop thou not, my gentle earthly love ! 

Mine still to be! 
I bore through death, to brighter lands above, 

My thoughts of thee. 

Yes ! the deep memory of our holy tears, 

Our mingled prayer, 
Our suffering love, through long devoted years, 

Went with me there. 

It was not vain, the hallow'd and the tried — 

It was not vain ! 
Still, though unseen, still hovering at thy side, 

I watch again ! 

From our own paths, our love's attesting bowers, 

I am not gone ; 
In the deep calm of Midnight's whispering hours, 

Thou art not lone : 

Not lone, when by the haunted streams thou weepest, 

That stream whose tone 
Murmurs of thoughts, the richest and the deepest, 

We two have known : 

Not lone, when mournfully some strain awaking 

Of days long past, 
From thy soft eyes the sudden tears are breaking. 

Silent and fast : 



( 265) 

Not lone, when upwards, in fond visions turning 

Thy dreamy glance. 
Thou seek' St my home, where solemn stars are burning, 

O'er night's expanse. 

My home is near thee, loved one ! and around thee. 

Where'er thou art ; 
Though still mortality's thick cloud hath bound thee, 

Doubt not thy heart ! 

Hear its low voice, nor deem thyself forsaken — 

Let faith be given 
To the still tones which oft our being waken — 

They are of heaven ! 



THE SUMMER'S CALL. 

Come away ! the sunny hours 
Woo thee far to founts and bowers ! 
O'er the very waters now. 

In their play. 
Flowers are shedding beauty's glow — 

Come aw^ay ! 
Where the lily's tender gleam 
Quivers on the glancing stream — 

Come away ! 

23 



( 266 ) 

And the air is fill'd with sound, 
Soft, and sultry, and profound ; 
]\Iurmurs through the shadowy grass 

Lightly stray; 
Faint winds whisper as they pass — 

Come away ; 
Where the bee's deep music swells 
From the trembling foxglove bells — 

Come away ! 

In the skies the sapphire blue 
Now hath won its richest hue ; 
In the woods the breath of song 

Night and day 
Floats with leafy scents along — 

Come away ! 
Where the boughs with dewy gloom 
Darken each thick bed of bloom 

Come away ! 

In the deep heart of the rose 
Now the crimson love-hue glows ; 
Now the glow-worm's lamp by night 

Sheds a ray 
Dreamy, starry, greenly bright — 

Come away ! 
Where the fair cup -moss lies, 
With the wild-wood strawberries, 

Come away ! 

Now each tree by summer crown' d, 
Sheds its own rich twilight round ; 



( 267 ) 

Glancing there from sun to shade, 
Bright wings play ; 

There the deer its couch hath made — 
Come away ! 

Where the smooth leaves of the lime 

Glisten in their honey-time — 

Come away — away 



EVENING PRAYER AT A GIRL'S SCHOOL. 

Hush ! 'tis a holy hour — the quiet room 

Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds 

A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom 

And the sweet stillness, down on fair young heads. 

With all their clust'ring locks, untouch' d by care, 

And bow'd, as flowers are bow'd with night, in prayer 

Gaze on — 'tis lovely! — Childhood's lip and cheek. 
Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought — 

Gaze — yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek, 
And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought ! — 

Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky, 

What death must fashion for eternity ! 

O ! joyous creatures ! that will sink to rest, 
Lightly, when those pure orisons are done. 

As birds with slumber's honey -dew opprest, 
'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun — 

Lifl up your hearts ! though yet no sorrow lies 

Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes. 



( 268 ) 

Though fresh within your breasts th' untroubled springs 
Of hope make melody where'er ye tread, 

And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings 
Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread ; 

Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low, 

Is woman's tenderness — how soon her woe ! 

Her lot is on you — silent tears to weep. 

And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour. 

And sunless riches, from affection's deep. 

To pour on broken reeds — a wasted shower ! 

And to make idols, and to find them clay, 

And to bewail that worship — therefore pray ! 

Her lot is on you — to be found untired, 
Watching the stars out by the bed of pain, 

With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired, 
A true heart of hope, though hope be vain ! 

Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay. 

And, oh ! to love through all things — therefore pray ; 

And take the thought of this calm vesper time. 
With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light. 

On through the dark days fading from their prime. 
As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight ; 

Earth will forsake — O ! happy to have given 

Th' unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven. 



Awn \^*?iwav 



..>l ari iii-ja sconcing 
Some lirii/hter \i\n\] 



* T here storms a: 



(269) 

THE BIRD AT SEA. 

Bird of the greenwood ! 

Oh ! why art thou here ? 
Leaves dance not o'er thee, 

Flowers bloom not near. 
All the sweet waters 

Far hence are at play — 
Bird of the greenwood ! 

^way, away ! 

Where the mast quivers, 

Thy place will not be. 
As 'midst the waving 

Of wild rose and tree. 
How should' st thou battle 

With storm and with spray ? 
Bird of the greenwood ! 

Away, away ! 

Or art thou seeking 

Some brighter land. 
Where by the south wind 

Vine leaves are fann'd ? 
'Midst the wild billows 

Why then delay ? 
Bird of the greenwood ! 

Away, away ! 

" Chide not my lingering 

Where storms are dark ; 
A hand that hath nursed me 

Is in the bark ; 

23* 



( 270 ) 

A heart that hath cherish' d 
Through winter's long day, 

So I turn from the greenwood. 
Away, away !" 



THE IVY SONG. 

Oh ! how could fancy crown with tlieCy 

In ancient days, the God of Wine, 
And bid thee at the banquet be 

Companion of the Vine ? 
Ivy ! thy home is where each sound 

Of revelry hath long been o'er, 
AV^here song and beaker once went round, 

But now are known no more, 

Where long-fallen gods recline. 
There the place is thine. 

The Roman, on his battle-plains. 

Where kings before his eagles bent, 
With thee, amidst exulting strains, 

Shadow'd the victor's tent : 
Though shining there in deathless green, . 

Triumphally thy boughs might wave. 
Better thou lovest the silent scene 

Around the victor's grave — 

Urn and sculpture half divine 
Yield their place to thine. 



( 271 ) 

The cold halls of- the regal dead, 

Where lone the Italian sunbeams dwell, 
Where hollow sounds the lightest tread — 

Ivy ! they know thee well ! 
And far above the festal vine. 

Thou wavest where once-proud banners hung, 
Where mouldering turrets crest the Rhine, 

— The Rhine, still fresh and young! 
Tower and rampart o'er the Rhine, 
Ivy ! all are thine ! 

High from the fields of air look down — 

Those eyries of a vanish' d race, 
Where harp, and battle, and renown, 

Have pass'd, and left no trace. 
But thou art there ! — serenely bright, 

Meeting the mountain storms with bloom. 
Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height, 

Or crown the lowliest tomb ! 
Ivy? Ivy ! all are thine, 
Palace, hearth, and shrine. 

'Tis still the same ; our pilgrim tread 

O'er classic plains, through deserts free, 
On the mute path of ages fled. 

Still meets decay and thee. 
And still let man his fabrics rear, 

August in beauty, stern in power, 
— Days pass— -thou Ivy never sere. 

And thou shalt have thy dower. 

All are thine, or must be thine — 
Temple, pillar, shrine ! 



( 272 ) 



LET HER DEPART. 

Her home is far, oh ! far away ! 

The clear light in her eyes 
Hath naught to do with earthly day, 

'T is kindled from the skies. 
Let her depart ! 

She looks upon the things of earth, 

Even as some gentle star 
Seems gazing down on grief or mirth, 

How softly, yet how far ! 
Let her depart ! 

Her spirit's hope — her bosom's love — 
Oh ! could they mount and fly ! 

She never sees a wandering dove. 
But for its wings to sigh. 
Let her depart ! 

She never hears a soft wind bear 

Low music on its way. 
But deems it sent from heavenly air. 

For her who cannot stay. 
Let her depart ! 

Wrapt in a cloud of glorious dreams. 
She breathes and moves alone. 

Pining for those bright bowers and streams 
Where her beloved is gone. 
Let her depart ! 



( 273 ) 



A PRAYER OF AFFECTION. 

Blessings, O Father, shower ! 
Father of mercies ! round his precious head ! 
On his lone walks and on his thoughtful hour, 
And the pure visions of his midnight bed, 

Blessings be shed ! 

Father ! I pray Thee not 
For earthly treasure to that most beloved, 
Fame, fortune, power ; — oh ! be his spirit proved 
By these, or by their absence, at Thy will ! 
But let Thy peace be wedded to his lot, 
Guarding his inner life from touch of ill, 

With its dove-pinion still ! 

Let such a sense of Thee, 
Thy watching presence, thy sustaining love. 
His bosom guest inalienably be. 

That wheresoe'er he move, 

A heavenly light serene 

Upon his heart and mien 
May sit undimm'd ! a gladness rest his own, 
Unspeakable, and to the world unknown ! 
Such as from childhood's morning land of dreams, 

Remember'd faintly, gleams, 
Faintly remember'd, and too swiftly flown ! 

So let him walk with Thee, 
Made by Thy spirit free ; 



(274) 

And when Thou call'st him from his mortal place, 
To his last hour be still that sweetness given, 
That joyful trust ! and brightly let him part, 
With lamp clear burning, and unlingering heart, 

Mature to meet in heaven 

His Saviour's face ! 



THE ROCK BESIDE THE SEA. 

Oh ! tell me not the woods are fair, 

Now Spring is on her way ; 
Well, well I know how brightly there 

In joy the young leaves play ; 
How sweet on winds of morn or eve 

The violet's breath may be ; — 
Yet ask me, woo me not to leave 

My lone rock by the sea. 

The wild wave's thunder on the shore. 

The curlew's restless cries, 
Unto my watching heart are more 

Than all earth's melodies. 
Come back, my ocean rover ! come ! 

There's but one place for me. 
Till I can greet thy swifl sail home — 

My lone rock by the sea ! 



( 275 ) 



PRAYER OF THE LONELY STUDENT. 

Night — holy night ! — the time 
For mind's free breathings in a purer clime ! 
Night ! when in happier hour the unveiling sky 

Woke all my kindled soul, 
To meet its revelations, clear and high, 
With the strong joy of immortality ; 
Now hath strange sadness wrapt me — strange and deep- 
And my thoughts faint, and shadows o'er them roll, 
E'en when I deem'd them seraph-plumed, to sweep 

Far beyond earth's control. 

Wherefore is this ? — I see the stars returning, 

Fire after fire in Heaven's rich temple burning — 

Fast shine they forth — my spirit friends, my guides, 

Bright rulers of my being's inmost tides ; 

They shine — but faintly, through a quivering haze — 

Oh ! is the dimness mine which clouds those rays ? 

They from whose glance my childhood drank delight ! 

A joy unquestioning — a love intense — 

They, that unfolding to a more thoughtful sight. 

The harmony of their magnificence, 

Drew silently the worship of my youth 

To the grave of sweetness on the brow of truth ; 

Shall they shower blessings, with their beams divine, 

Down to the watcher on the stormy sea, 

And to the pilgrim toiling for 'his shrine 

Through some wild pass of rocky Apennine, 



(276) 

And to the wanderer lone 
On wastes of Afric thrown, 
And not to me ? 

Am I thing forsaken, 

And is the gladness taken 
From the bright-pinion' d nature which hath soar'd 
Through realms by royal eagle ne'er explored, 
And, bathing there in streams of fiery light, 
Found strength to gaze upon the Infinite? 
And now an alien ! — wherefore must this be ? 

How shall I rend the chain ! 

How drink rich life again 
From those pure urns of radiance, swelling free ? 
Father of Spirits ! let me turn to thee ! 

Oh ! if too much exulting in her dower. 
My soul not yet to lowly thought subdued. 

Hath stood without thee on her hill of power — 
A fearful and a dazzling solitude ! 

And therefore from that haughty summit's crown. 

To dim desertion is by thee cast down ; 

Behold ! thy child submissively hath bow'd — 
Shine on him through the cloud ! 

Let the now darken' d earth and curtain' d heaven 
Back to his vision with thy face be given ! 

Bear him on high once more, 

But in thy strength to soar, 
A wrapt and still by that o'ershadowing might. 
Forth on the empyreal blaze to look with chastened sight. 



( 277 ) 

Or if it be, that like the ark's lone dove, 
My thoughts go forth, and find no resting place, 
No sheltering home of sympathy and love, 
In the responsive bosoms of my race, 
And back return, a darkness and a weight, 
Till my unanswer'd heart grows desolate — 
Yet, yet sustain me. Holiest ! — I am vow'd 

To solemn service high ; 
And shall the spirit, for thy tasks endow'd. 
Sink on the threshold of the sanctuary. 
Fainting beneath the burden of the day. 

Because no human tone, 

Unto the altar-stone, 
Of that pure spousal fane inviolate. 
Where it should make eternal truth its mate. 
May cheer the sacred solitary way ? 

Oh ! be the whisper of thy voice within 
Enough to strengthen ! Be the hope to win 
A more deep-seeing homage for thy name, 
Far, far beyond the burning dream of fame ! 
Make me thine only ! Let me add but one 
To those refulgent steps all undefiled. 

Which glorious minds have piled 
Through bright self-offering, earnest, child-like, lone. 

For mounting to thy throne ! 

And let my soul, upborne 

On wings of inner morn. 
Find, in illumined secrecy, the sense 
Of that blest work, its own high recompense. 

The dimness melts away. 

That on your glory lay, 

24 



( 278 ) 

ye majestic watchers of the skies ! 
Through the dissolving veil, 
Which made each aspect pale, 

Your gladd'ning fires once more I recognise ; 
And once again a shower 
Of hope, and joy, and power. 

Streams on my soul from your immortal eyes. 

And, if that splendor to my sober'd sight 
Come tremulous, with more of pensive light — 
Something, though beautiful, yet deeply fraught. 
With more that pierces through each fold of thought 
Than I was wont to trace 
On Heaven's unshadow'd face — 
Be it e'en so ! — be mine, though set apart 
Unto a radiant ministry, yet still 
A lowly, fearful, self-distrusting heart; 
Bow'd before thee, O Mightiest ! whose blest will, 
All the pure stars rejoicingly fulfil. 



EASTEH DAY IN A MOUNTAIN CHURCH- YARD. 

i There is a wakening on the mighty hills, 
A kindling with the spirit of the morn ! 
Bright gleams are scatter'd from the thousand rills, 
And a soft visionary hue is born 

On the young foliage, worn 
By all the embosom'd woods — a silvery green. 
Made up by spring and dew, harmoniously serene. 



( 279 ) 

And lo ! where floating through a glory, sings 
The lark, alone amidst a crystal sky ! 
Lo ! where the darkness of his buoyant wings, 
Against a soft and rosy cloud on high, 

Trembles with melody ! 
While the far-echoing solitudes rejoice 
To the rich laugh of music in that voice. 

But purer light than of the early sun 
Is on you cast, O mountains of the earth ! 
And for your dwellers nobler joy is won 
Than the sweet echoes of the skylark's mirth, 

By this glad morning's birth ! 
And gifts more precious by its breath are shed 
Than music on the breeze, dew on the violet's head. 

Gifts for the sowZ, from whose illumined eye, 
O'er nature's face, the coloring glory flows ; 
Gifts from the founts of immortality. 
Which, fill'd with balm, unknown to human woes. 

Lay hush'd in dark repose, 
Till thou, bright dayspring ! mad'st its waves our own. 
By thine unsealing of the burial stone. 

Sing, then, with all your choral strains, ye hills ! 

And let a full victorious tone be given, 

By rock and cavern, to the wind which fills 

Your urn-like depths with sound ! The tomb is riven. 

The radiant gate of Heaven 
Unfolded — and the stern, dark shadow cast 
By death's o'ersweeping wing, from the earth's bosom past. 



(280) 

And you, ye graves ! upon whose turf I stand, 
Girt with the slumbers of the hamlet's dead. 
Time with a soft and reconciling hand 
The covering mantle of bright moss hath spread 

O'er every narrow bed : 
But not by time, and not by nature sown 
Was the celestial seed, whence round you peace hath 
grown. 

Christ hath arisen ! oh ! not one cherish' d head 
Hath, 'midst the flowery sods, been pillow'd here 
Without a hope, (howe'er the heart hath bled 
In its vain yearnings o'er the unconscious bier.) 

A hope, upspringing clear 
From those majestic tidings of the morn, 
Which lit the living way to all of woman born. 

Thou hast wept mournfully, O human love ! 
E'en on this greensward ; night hath heard thy cry, 
Heart-stricken one ! thy precious dust above. 
Night, and the hills, which sent forth no reply 

Unto thine agony ! 
But He who wept like thee, thy Lord, thy guide, 
Christ hath arisen, O love ! thy tears shall all be dried. 

Dark must have been the gushing of those tears, 
Heavy the unsleeping phantom of the tomb 
On thine impassion' d soul, in elder years 
When, burden' d with the mystery of its doom. 

Mortality's thick gloom 
Hung o'er the sunny world, and with the breath 
Of the triumphant rose came blending thoughts of death. 



(281) 

By thee, sad Love, and by thy sister, Fear, 
Then, was the ideal robe of beauty wrought 
To veil that haunting shadow, still too near. 
Still ruling secretly the conqueror's thought. 

And where the board was fraught 
With wine and myrtles in the summer-bower. 
Felt, e'en when disavow'd, a presence and a power. 

But that dark night is closed ; and o'er the dead, 
Here, where the gleamy primrose tufts have blown. 
And ivhere the mountain heath a couch has spread. 
And, settling ofl on some grey-letter' d stone. 

The red-breast warbles lone ; 
And the wild bee's deep, drowsy murmurs pass 
And a low thrill of harpstrings through the grass. 

Here, 'midst the chambers of the Christian's sleep, 
We o'er death's gulf may look with trusting eye. 
For hope sits, dove-like, on the gloomy deep. 
And the green hills wherein these valleys lie 

Seem all one sanctuary 
Of holiest thought — nor needs then- fresh bright sod, 
Urn, wreath or shrine, for tombs all dedicate to God. 

Christ hath arisen ! — O mountain peaks ! attest. 
Witness, resounding glen and torrent-wave. 
The immortal courage in the human breast 
Sprung from that victory — tell how oft the brave 

To camp 'midst rock and cave. 
Nerved by those words, their struggling faith have borne, 
Planting the cross on high above the clouds of morn. 

24* 



(282 ) 

The Alps have heard sweet hymnings for to-day — 
Aye, and with sounds of sterner, deeper tone, 
Have thrill'd their pines, when those that knelt to pray 
Rose up to arm ! the pure, high snows have known 

A coloring not their own, 
But from true hearts which by that crimson stain 
Gave token of a trust that call'd no suffering vain. 

Those days are past — the mountains wear no more 
The solemn splendor of the martyr's blood. 
And may that awful record, as of yore, 
Never again be known to field or flood ! 

E'en though the faithful stood, 
A noble army, in the exulting sight 
Of earth and heaven, which blest their battle for the right ! 

But many a martyrdom by hearts unshaken 
Is yet borne silently in homes obscure ; 
And many a bitter cup is meekly taken ; 
And, for the strength whereby the just and pure 

Thus steadfastly endure, 
Glory to Him whose victory won that dower. 
Him, from whose rising stream'd that robe of spirit power. 

Glory to Him ! Hope to the suffering breast ! 
Light to the nations ! He hath roll'd away 
The mists, which, gathering into deathlike rest, 
Between the soul and Heaven's calm ether lay — 

His love hath made it day 
With those that sat in darkness. — Earth and sea ! 
Lifl up glad strains for man by truth divine made free ! 



(283) 



HYMN OF THE TRAVELLER'S HOUSEHOLD ON HIS 
RETURN. 

IN THE OLDEN TIME. 

Joy ! the lost one is restored ! 
Sunshine comes to hearth and board, 
From the far-off countries old 
Of the diamond and red gold ; 
From the dusky ai'cher bands, 
Reamers of the fiery sands ; 
From the desert winds, whose breath 
Smites with sudden silent death ; 
He hath reach' d his home again. 

Where we sing 
In thy praise a fervent strain, 

God our King ! 

Mightiest ! unto thee he turn'd, 
When the noonday fiercest burn'd ; 
When the fountain springs were far, 
And the sounds of Arab war 
Swell'd upon the sultry blast, 
And the sandy columns past, 
Unto Thee he cried ! and Thou, 
Merciful ! didst hear his vow ! 
Therefore, unto thee again 

Joy shall sing, 
Many a sweet and thankful strain, 

God our Kinor | 



( 284) 

Thou wert with him on the main, 
And the snowy mountain-chain, 
And the rivers dark and wide. 
Which through Indian forests glide, 
Thou didst guard him from the wrath 
Of the lion in his path. 
And the arrows on the breeze, 
And the drooping poison trees : 
Therefore, from household train 

Ofl shall spring 
Unto thee a blessing strain, 

God our King ! 

Thou to his lone watching wife 
Hast brought back the light of life ! 
Thou hast spared his loving child 
Home to greet him from the wild. 
Though the suns of eastern skies 
Gn his cheek have set their dyes. 
Though long toils and sleepless cares 
On his brow have blanch'd the hairs. 
Yet the night of fear is flown. 
He is living, and our own ! — 
Brethren ! spread his festal board, 
Hang his mantle on his sword. 
With the armor on the wall, 
While this long, long silent hall 
Joyfully doth hear again 

Voice and string 
Swell to Thee the exulting strain, 

God our Kinor i 



( 285) 



THE TWO MONUMENTS. 

Banners hung drooping from on high 
In a dim cathedral's nave, 

Making a gorgeous canopy 
O'er a noble, noble grave ! 

And a marble warrior's form beneath, 
With helm and crest array' d. 

As on his battle bed of death, 
Lay in their crimson shade. 

Triumph yet linger'd in his eye. 
Ere by the dark night seal'd. 

And his head was pillow'd haughtily 
On standard and on shield. 

And shadowing that proud trophy pile 
With the glory of his wing 

An eagle sat ; — yet seem'd the while 
Panting through Heaven to spring. 

He sat upon a shiver'd lance, 
There by the sculptor bound ; 

But in the light of his lifted glance 
Was that which scorn' d the ground. 

And a burning flood of gem-like hues 
From a storied window pour'd. 

There fell, there centred, to suffuse 
The conqueror and his sword. 



( 286 ) 

A flood of hues! — ' " one rich dye 

O'er ail supremely spread, 
With a purple robe of royalty 

Mantling the mighty dead. 

Meet was that robe for him whose name 

Was a trumpet note in war, 
His pathway still the march of fame. 

His eye the battle star. 

But faintly, tenderly was thrown 
From the color' d light one ray, 

Where a low and pale memorial stone 
By the couch of glory lay. 

Few were the fond words chisel!' d there, 

Mourning for parted worth ; 
But the very heart of love and prayer 

Had given their sweetness forth. 

They spoke of one whose life had been 
As a hidden streamlet's course, 

Bearing on health and joy unseen, 
From its clear mountain source : 

Whose young pure memory, lying deep 
'Midst rock, and wood, and hill. 

Dwelt in the homes where poor men sleep, 
A soft light meek and still : 

Whose gentle voice too early calPd 
Unto Music's land away. 



(287) 

Had won for God the earth's enthrall'd 
By words of silvery sway. 

These were his victories — yet enroli'd 

In no high song of fame, 
The pastor of the mountain-fold 

Left but to Heaven his name. 

To Heaven and to the peasant's hearth, 
A blessed household sound — 

And finding lowly love on earth, 
Enough, enough, he found ! 

Bright and more bright before me gleam'd 

That sainted image still ; 
Till one sweet moonlight memory seem'd 

The regal fane to fill. 

Oh ! how my silent spirit turn'd 
From those proud trophies nigh ; 

How my full heart within me burn'd 
Like Him to live and die ! 



( 288) 



EVENING SONG OF THE WEARY. 

Father of Heaven and Earth ! 
I biess thee for the night, 
The soft, still night ! 
The holy pause of care and mirth, 
Of sound and light ! 

Now far in glade and dell. 
Flower-cup, and bud, and bell. 
Have shut around the sleeping woodlark's nest — 
The bee's long murmuring toils are done. 
And I, the o'erwearied one, 
O'erwearied and o'erwrought. 
Bless thee, O God, O Father of the oppress'd, 
With m^y last waking thought, 

In the still night ! 

Yes, ere I sink to rest. 

By the fire's dying light. 

Thou Lord of Earth and Heaven ! 

I bless thee, who hast given 
Unto life's fainting travellers, the night. 

The soft, still, holy night ! 



(289) 



THE STRANGER IN LOUISIANA. 

We saw thee, O stranger, and wept ! 
We look'd for the youth of the sunny glance 
Whose step was the fleetest in chase or dance ! 
The light of his eye was a joy to see, 
The path of his arrows a storm to flee ! 
But there came a voice from a distant shore : 
He was call'd — he is found 'midst his tribe no more! 
He is not in his place when the night-fires burn, 
But we look for him still — he will yet return ! 
His brother sat with a drooping brow 
In the gloom of the shadowing cypress bough : 
We roused him — we bade him no longer pine. 
For we heard a step — but the step was thine. 

We saw thee, O stranger, and wept ! 
We look'd for the maid of the mournful sonor — 
Mournful, though sweet — she hath lefl us long ! 
W^e told her the youth of her love was gone. 
And she went forth to seek him — she pass'd alone; 
We hear not her voice when the woods are still. 
From the bower where it sang, like a silvery rill. 
The joy of her sire with her smile is fled, 
The winter is white on his lonely head. 
He hath none by his side when the wilds we track. 
He hath none when we rest — yet she comes not back ! 
We look'd for her eye on the feast to shine. 
For her breezy step — but the step was thine ! 

We saw thee, O stranger, and wept ! 
We look'd for the chief wha hath lefl the spear 
And the bow of his battles forgotten here ! 

25 



( 290 ) 

We look'd for the hunter, whose bride's lament 
On the wind of the forest at eve is sent : 
We look'd for the first-born, whose mother's cry- 
Sounds wild and shrill through the midnight sky ! -— 
Where are they ? — thou art seeking some distant coast - 
O ask of them, strangex' ! — send back the lost ! 
Tell them we mourn by the dark blue streams, 
Tell them our lives but of them are dreams ! 
Tell, how we sat in the gloom to pine. 
And to watch for a step — but the step was thine ! 



THE PENITENT'S RETURN. 

My father's house once more. 
In its own moonlight beauty ! Yet around. 
Something amidst the dewy calm profound, 

Broods, never mark'd before ! 

Is it the brooding night. 
Is it the shivery creeping on the air, 
That makes the home so tranquil and so fair, 

O'erwhelming to my sight ? 

All solemnized it seems, 
And still, and darken'd in each time-worn hue, 
Since the rich clustering roses met my view, 

As now, by starry gleams. 

And this high elm, where last 
I stood and linger' d — where my sisters made 
Our mother's bower — I deem'd not that it cast 

So far and dark a shade ! 



L._„ 



( 281 ) 

How spirit-like a tone 
Sighs through yon tree ! My father's place was there 
At evening hours, while soft winds waved his hair ! 

Now those grey locks are gone ! 

My soul grows faint with fear ; 
Even as if angel-steps had mark'd the sod. 
I tremble where I move — the voice of God 

Is in the foliage here ! 

Is it indeed the night 
That makes my home so awful ? Faithless-hearted ! 
'Tis that from thine own bosom hath departed 

The inborn gladd'ning light ! 

No outward thing is changed ; 
Only the joy of purity is fled 
And, long from nature's melodies estranged, 

Thou hear'st their tones with dread. 

Therefore, the calm abode, 
By the dark spirit, is o'erhung with shade ; 
And, therefore, in the leaves, the voice of God 

Makes thy sick heart afraid ! 

The night-flowers round that door, 
Still breathe pure fragrance on the untainted air ; 
Thou, thou alone art worthy now no more 

To pass, and rest thee there. 

And must I turn away ? — 
Hark, hark! — it is my mother's voice I hear — 
Sadder than once it seem'd — yet soft and clear — 

Doth she not seem to pray ? 



( 2-92 ) 

My name ! — I caught the sound ! 
Oh! blessed tone of love — the deep, the mild — 
Mother, my mother ! Now receive thy child, 

Take back the lost and found ! 



THE WATER LILY. 

Oh ! beautiful thou art, 
Thou sculpture-like and stately River-Queen ! 
Crowning the depths, as with the light serene 

Of a pure heart. 

Bright lily of the wave ! 
Rising in fearless grace with every swell. 
Thou seem'st as if a spirit meekly brave 

Dwelt in thy cell : 

Lifting alike thy head 
Of placid beauty, feminine yet free, 
Whether with foam or pictured azure spread 

The waters be. 

What is like thee, fair flower, 
The gentle and the firm? thus bearing up 
To the blue sky that alabaster cup. 

As to the shower ? 

Oh ! Love is most like thee, 
The love of woman ; quivering to the blast 
Through every nerve, yet rooted deep and fast, 

'Midst Life's dark sea. 



(293 ) 

And Faith — O, is not faith 
Like thee too, Lily, springing into light. 
Still buoyantly above the billows' might. 

Through the storm's breath? 

Yes, Hnk'd with such high thought. 
Flower, let thme image in my bosom lie ! 
Till something there of its own purity 

And peace be wrought : 

Something yet more divine 
Than the clear, pearly, virgin lustre shed 
Forth from thy breast upon the river's bed, 

As from a shrine. 



LET US DEPART.* 

Night hung on Salem's towers, 

And a brooding hush profound 
Lay where the Roman eagle shone. 

High o'er the tents around. 
The tents that rose by thousands. 

In the moonlight glimmering pale ; 
Like white waves of a frozen sea, 

Filling an Alpine vale. 



It IS mentioned by Josephus, that, a short time previously to the de- 
struction of Jerusalem by the Romans, the priests, going by night into 
the mner court of the temple to perform their sacred miniftrationf at the 
feast of Pentecost, felt a quaking, and heard a rushing noise, and, after 
that, a sound as of a great multitude saying, - Let us depart hence." 

25* 



(294) 

And the temple's massy shadow 

Fell broad, and dark, and still, 
In peace, as if the Holy One 

Yet watch'd his chosen hill. 
But a fearful sound was heard 

In that old fane's deepest heart, 
As if mighty wings rush'd by. 

And a dread voice raised the cry, 
" Let us depart !" 

Within the fated city 

E'en then fierce discord raved, 
Though o'er night's heaven the comet sword 

Its vengeful token waved. 
There were shouts of kindred warfare 

Through the dark streets ringing high, 
Though every sign was full which told 

Of the bloody vintage nigh. 
Though the wild red spears and arrows 

Of many a meteor host, 
Went flashing o'er the holy stars. 

In the sky now seen, now lost. 
And that fearful sound was heard 

In the temple's deepest heart, 
As if mighty wings rush'd by. 

And a voice cried mournfully, 
'' Let us depart 1" 

But within the fated city 

There was revelry that night ; 
The wine~cup and the timbrel note. 

And the blaze of banquet light. 



(295 ) 

The footsteps of the dancer 

Went bountiing through the hall, 
And the music of the dulcimer 

Summon'd to festival. 
While the clash of brother weapons 

Made lightning in the air, 
And the dying at the palace gates 

Lay down in their despair. 
And that fearful sound was heard 

At the Temple's thrilling heart, 
As if mighty wings rush'd by. 

And a dread voice raised the cry, 
" Let us depart /" 



O YE VOICES GONE. 

Oh ! ye voices gone, 
Sounds of other years 

Hush that haunting tone, 
Melt me not to tears ! 

All around forget, 

All who love you well. 

Yet, sweet voices, yet 
O'er my soul ye swell. 

With the winds of spring. 
With the breath of flowers. 

Floating back, ye bring 

Thoughts of vanish'd hours. 



( 296 ) 

Hence your music take^ 
Oh ! ye voices gone ! 

This lone heart ye make 
But more deeply lone. 



NIGHT HYMN AT SEA. 

Night sinks on the wave, 

Hollow gusts are sighing, 
Sea birds to their cave 

Through the gloom are flying, 
Oh ! should storms come sweeping, 
Thou, in Heaven unsleeping. 
O'er thy children vigil keeping, 
Hear, hear, and save ! 

Stars look o'er the sea. 

Few, and sad, and shrouded ! 

Faith our light must be, 
When all else is clouded. 

Thou, whose voice came thrilling. 

Wind and billow stilling. 

Speak once more ! our prayer fulfilling 
Power dwells with Thee ! 



( 297 ) 



THE VOICE OF THE WIND. 

Oh ! many a voice is thine, thou Wind ! full many a 
voice is thine, 

From every scene thy wing o'ersweeps thou bear'st a 
sound and sign ; 

A minstrel wild and strong thou art, with a mastery all 
thine own. 

And the spirit is thy harp, O Wind ! that gives the an- 
swering tone. 

Thou hast been across red fields of war, where shiver'd 

helmets lie, 
And thou bringest thence the thrilling note of a clarion 

in the sky ; 
A rustling of proud banner-folds, a peal of stormy drums ; 
All these are in thy music met, as when a leader comes. 

Thou hast been o'er solitary seas, and from their wastes 

brought back 
Each noise of waters that awoke in the mystery of thy 

track — 
The chime of low soft southern waves on some green 

palmy shore. 
The hollow roll of distant surge, the garner'd billows' 

roar. 



( 298 ) 

Thou art come from forests dark and deep, thou mighty 

rushing Wind ! 
And thou bearest all their unisons in one full swell 

combined ; 
The restless pines, the moaning stream, all hidden things 

and free, 
Of the dim old sounding wilderness, have lent their soul 

to thee. 

Thou art come from cities lighted up for the conqueror 

passing by. 
Thou art w^afting from their streets a sound of haughty 

revelry ; 
The rolling of triumphant wheels, the harpings in the hall. 
The far-off shout of multitudes, are in thy rise and fall. 

Thou art come from kingly tombs and shrines, from 

ancient minsters vast. 
Through the dark aisles of a thousand years thy lonely 

wing hath pass'd ; 
Thou hast caught the anthem's billowy swell, and the 

stately dirge's tone. 
For a chief, with sword, and shield, and helm, to his 

place of slumber gone. 

Thou art come from long-forsaken homes, w^herein our 

young days flew. 
Thou hast found sweet voices lingering there, the loved, 

the kind, the true ; 
Thou callest back those melodies, though now all changed 

and fled — 
Be still, be still, and haunt us not with music from the 

dead ! 



( 299) 

Are all these notes in thee, wild wind ? these many notes 

in thee ? 
Far in our own unfathom'd souls their fount must surely 

be ; 

Yes ! buried, but unsleeping, there thought watches, memory 

lies, 
From whose deep urn the tones are pour'd through all 

earth's harmonies. 



THE CHARMED PICTURE. 

Thine eyes are charm'd — thine earnest eyes- 

Thou image of the dead ! 
A spell within their sweetness lies, 

A. virtue thence is shed. 

Ofl in their meek blue light enshrined, 

A blessing seems to be. 
And sometimes there my wayward mind 

A still reproach can see. 

And sometimes Pity — soil and deep, 

And quivering through a tear ; 
Even as if Love in Heaven could weep, 

For Grief left drooping here. 

And oh ! my spirit needs that balm, 

Needs it 'midst fitful mirth ; 
And in. the night-hour's haunted calm. 

And by the lonely hearth. 



( 300 ) 

Look on me thus^ when hollow praise 

Hath made the weary pine 
For. one true tone of other days, 

One glance of love like thine ! 

Look on me thus^ when sudden glee 

Bears my quick heart along, 
On wings that struggle to be free, 

As bursts of skylark song. 

In vain, in vain! — too soon are felt 

The wounds they cannot flee ; 
Better in childlike tears to melt, 

Pouring my soul on thee ! 

Sweet face that o'er my childhood shone. 

Whence is thy power of change. 
Thus ever shadowing back my own, 

The rapid and the strange ? 

Whence are they charm' d — those earnest eyes? 

— I know the mystery well ! 
In mine own trembling bosom lies 

The spirit of the spell ! 

Of Memory, Conscience, Love, 'tis born — 

Oh ! change no longer, thou ! 
Forever be the blessing worn 

On thy pure thoughtful brow ! 



(301) 



THE NIGHTINGALE'S DEATH SONG. 

Mournfully, sing mournfully, 

And die away my heart ! 
The rose, the glorious rose is gone. 

And I, too, will depart. 

The skies have lost their splendor. 

The waters changed their tone. 
And wherefore, in the faded world. 

Should music linger on ? 

Where is the golden sunshine. 
And where the flower-cup's glow ? 

And where the joy of the dancing leaves, 
And the fountain's laughing flow ? 

A voice, in every whisper 

Of the wave, the bough, the air. 

Comes asking for the beautiful. 

And moaning, " Where, oh ! where ?" 

Tell of the brightness parted, 

Thou bee, thou lamb at play ! 
Thou lark, in thy victorious mirth ! 

— Are ye, too, pass'd away! 

Mournfully, sing mournfully ! 

The royal rose is gone. 

Melt from the woods, my spirit, melt 

In one deep farewell tone ! 

26 



( 302 ) 

Not so, swell forth triumphantly, 

The full, rich, fervent strain ! 
Hence with young love and life I go, 

In the summer's joyous train. 

With sunshine, with sweet odor, 

With every precious thing. 
Upon the last warm southern breeze 

My soul its flight shall wing. 

Alone I shall not linger. 

When the days of hope are past, 
To watch the fall of leaf by leaf, 

To wait the rushing blast. 

Triumphantly, triumphantly ! 

Sing to the woods, I go ! 
For me, perchance, in other lands, 

The glorious rose may blow. 

The sky's transparent azure. 

And the greensward's violet breath, 

And the dance of light leaves in the wind. 
May there know naught of death. 

No more, no more sing mournfully ! 

Swell high, then break, my heart ! 
With love, the spirit of the woods. 

With summer I depart 



( 303) 



DESPOJNTDENCY AND ASPIRxiTION. 

My soul was mantled with dark shadows, born 

Of lonely Fear, disquieted in vain : 
Its phantoms hung around the star of morn, 

A cloud-like weeping train ; 
Through the long day they dimm'd the autumn gold 
On all the glistening leaves ; and wildly roll'd, 

When the last farewell flush of light was glowing 
Across the sunset sky ; 

O'er its rich isles of vaporous glory throwing 
One melancholy dye. 

And when the solemn Night 

Came rushing with her might 
Of stormy oracles from caves unknown, 

Then with each fitful blast 

Prophetic murmurs pass'd, 
Wakening or answering some deep Sibyl tone, 
Far buried in my breast, yet prompt to rise 
With every gusty wail that o'er the wind-harp flies. 

" Fold, fold thy wings," they cried, " and strive no more. 
Faint spirit, strive no more ! — for thee too strong 

Are outward will and wronor. 
And inward wasting fires ! — Thou canst not soar 

Free on a starry way 

Beyond their blighting sway, 
At Heaven's high gate serenely to adore ! 
How shouldst thou hope Earth's fetters to unbind ? 
O passionate, yet weak ! O trembler to the wind ! 

23* 



( 304) 

" Never shall aught but broken music flow 
From joy of thine, deep love, or tearful woe ; 
Such homeless notes as through the forest sigh, 
From the reeds hollow shaken. 
When sudden breezes waken 
Their vague wild symphony : 
No power is theirs, and no abiding place 
In human hearts ; their sweetness leaves no trace ■ 
Born only so to die ! 

" Never shall aught but perfume, faint and vain. 
On the fleet pinion of the changeful hour, 
From thy bruised life again 
A moment's essence breathe ; 
Thy life, whose trampled flower 
Into the blessed wreath 
Of household charities no longer bound, 
Lies pale and withering on the barren ground. 

" So fade, fade on ! thy gift of love shall cling, 
A coiling sadness, round thy heart and brain, 
A silent, fruitless, yet undying thing, 

All sensitive to pain ! 
And still the shadow of vain dreams shall fall 
O'er thy mind's world, a daily darkenuig pall. 
Fold, then, thy wounded wing, and sink subdued. 
In cold and unrepining quietude !" 



Then my soul yielded ; spells of numbing breath 
Crept o'er it heavy with a dew of death. 



( 305 ) 

Its powers, like leaves before the night rain, closing; 
And, as by conflict of wild sea-waves toss'd 
On the chill bosom of some desert coast, 

Mutely and hopelessly I lay reposing. 

When silently it seem'd 
As if a soft mist gleam' d 
Before my passive sight, and, slowly curling, 
To many a shape and hue 
Of vision'd beauty grew. 
Like a wrought banner, fold by fold unfurling. 
Oh ! the rich scenes that o'er mine inward eye 

Unrolling then swept by, 
With dreamy motion ! Silvery seas were there 
Lit by large dazzling stars, and arch'd by skies 
Of southern midnight's most transparent dyes, 
And gemniM with many an island, wildly fair. 
Which floated past me into orient day. 
Still gathering lustre on th' illumin'd way. 
Till its high groves of wondrous flowering trees 
Color'd the silvery seas. 

And then a glorious mountain-chain uprose. 

Height above spiry height ! 
A soaring solitude of woods and snows. 

All steep'd in golden light ! 
While as it pass'd, those regal peaks unveiling, 

I heard, methought, a waving of dread wings 
And mighty sounds, as if the vision hailino-. 

From lyres that quiver'd through ten thousand strings 
Or as if waters forth to music leaping, 

From many a cave, the Alpine Echo's hall, 

26* 



( 306 ) 

On their bold way victoriously were sweeping, 
Link'd in majestic anthems ! while through all 
That billowy swell and fall, 

Voices, like ringing crystal, fill'd the air 
With inarticulate melody, that stirr'd 
My being's core ; then, moulding into word 

Their piercing sweetness, bade me rise and bear 
In that great coral strain my trembling part 

Of tones, by love and faith struck from a human heart. 

Return no more, vain bodings of the night ! 

A happier oracle within my soul 
Hath swell' d to power; — a clear unwavering light 
Mounts through the battling clouds that round me roll, 
And to a new control 
Nature's full harp gives forth rejoicing tones. 

Wherein my glad sense owns 
The accordant rush of elemental sound 
To one consummate harmony profound ; 
One grand Creation Hymn, 
Whose notes the seraphim 
Lift to the glorious height of music wing'd and crown'd. 

Shall not those notes find echoes in my lyre, 
Faithful though faint? — Shall not my spirit's fii^. 
If slowly, yet unswervingly, ascend 
Now to its fount and end ? 
Shall not my earthly love, all purified. 

Shine forth a heavenward guide ? 
An angel of bright power? — and strongly bear 
My being upward into holier air. 



( 307 ) 

Where fiery passion-clouds have no abode, 
And the sky's temple-arch o'erflows with God ? 

The radiant hope new-born 

Expands like rising morn 
In my life's life : and as a ripening rose 
The crimson shadow of its glory throws 
More vivid, hour by hour, on some pure stream ; 

So from that hope are spreadino- 

Rich hues, o'er nature shedding. 
Each day, a clearer, spiritual gleam. 

Let not those rays fade from me — once enjoy'd, 

Father of spirits ! let them not depart ! 
Leaving the chill'd earth, without form and void, 

Darken'd by mine own heart ! 
Lift, aid, sustain me! Thou, by whom alone 

All lovely gifts and pure 

In the soul's grasp endure ; 
Thou, to the steps of whose eternal throne 
All knowledge flows — a sea for evermore 
Breaking its crested waves on that sole shore — 
O consecrate my life ! that I may sing 
Of Thee with joy that hath a living spring, 
In a full heart of music ! — Let my lays 
Through the resounding mountains wafl thy praise. 
And with that theme the wood's green cloisters fill. 
And make their quivering leafy dimness thrill 
To the rich breeze of song ! Oh ! let me wake 

The deep religion, which hath dwelt from yore. 
Silently brooding by lone cliff and lake, 
And wildest river shore ! 



( 308 ) 

And let me summon all the voices dwelling 
Whose eagles build, and cavern' d rills are welling. 
And where the cataract's organ-peal is swelling. 
In that one spirit gather' d to adore ! 

Forgive, O Father ! if presumptuous thought 

Too daringly in aspiration rise ! 
Let not thy child all vainly have been taught 

By weakness, and by wanderings, and by sighs 
Of sad confession ! — lowly be my heart, 

And on its penitential altar spread 
The offerings worthless, till thy grace impart 

The fire from Heaven, whose touch alone can shed 
Life, radiance, virtue ! — let that vital spark 
Pierce my whole being, v/ilder'd else and dark ! 

Thine are all holy things — O make me Thine, 
So shall I, too, be pure — a living shrine 
Unto that Spirit, which goes forth from Thee, 

Strong and divinely free. 
Bearing thy gifls of wisdom on its flight, 
And brooding o'er them with a dove-like wing, 
Till thought, word, song, to Thee in worship spring, 
Immortality endow'd for liberty and light. 



(309) 



SONNETS, DEVOTIONAL AND MEMORIAL. 



L— THE SACRED HARP. 

How shall the harp of poesy regain 

That old victorious tone of prophet-years, 
A spell divine o'er guilt's perturbing fears. 
And all the hovering shadows of the brain ? 
Dark evil wings took flight before the strain, 
And showers of holy quiet, with its fall, 
Sank on the soul : — Oh ! who may now recall 
The mighty music's consecrated reign ? — 
Spirit of God ! whose glory once o'erhung 
A throne, the Ark's dread cherubim between. 
So let thy presence brood, though now unseen. 

O'er those two powers by whom the harp is strung 

Feeling and Thought !— till the rekindled chords 
Give the long-buried tone back to immortal words ! 



n.— TO A FAMILY BIBLE. 

What household thoughts around thee, as their shrine. 

Cling reverently ! — of anxious looks beguiled. 

My mother's eyes, upon thy page divine, 

Each day were bent; — her accents, gravely mild, 

Breathed out thy lore : whilst I, a dreamy child, 

Wander'd on breeze-like fancies ofl away. 

To some lone tuft of gleaming spring-flowers wild, 

Some fresh-discover'd nook for woodland play, 



(310) 

Some secret nest : — yet would the solemn Word 
At times, with kindlings of young wonder heard, 

Fall on my waken' d spirit, there to be 
A seed not lost ; — for which, in darker years, 
O Book of Heaven ! I pour, with grateful tears, 

Heart blessings on the holy dead and thee ! 



III.— REPOSE OF A HOLY FAMILY. 

Under a palm tree, by the green old Nile, 

LulPd on his mother's breast, the fair Child lies, 
With dove-like breathings, and a tender smile. 

Brooding above the slumber of his eyes. 
While, through the stillness of the burning skies, 

Lo ! the dread works of Egypt's buried kings, 
Temple and pyramid, beyond him rise. 

Regal and still as everlasting things ! — 
Vain pomps ! from Him, with that pure flowery cheek, 

Soft shadow'd by his mother's drooping head, 
A new-born Spirit, mighty, and yet meek. 

O'er the whole world like vernal air shall spread ! 
And bid all earthly Grandeurs cast the crown. 
Before the suffering and the lowly, down. 



IV —PICTURE OF THE INFANT CHRIST WITH FLOWERS. 

All the bright hues from eastern garlands glowing. 
Round the young child luxuriantly are spread ; 
Gifts, fairer far than Magian kings, bestowing 
In adoration, o'er his cradle shed. 



(311) 

Roses, deep-fiird with rich midsummer's red, 
Circle his hands ; but, in his grave sweet eye, 
Thought seems e'en now to wake, and prophesy 
Of ruder coronals for that meek head. 
And thus it was ! a diadem of thorn 
Earth gave to Him who mantled her with flowers. 
To him who pour'd forth blessings in soft showers 
O'er all her paths, a cup of bitter scorn ! 
And we repine, for whom that cup He took, 
O'er blooms that mock'd our hope, o'er idols that forsook ! 



V,— ON A REMEMBERED PICTURE OF CHRIST 

I MET that image on a mirthful day 

Of youth ; and, sinking with a still'd surprise, 
The pride of life, before those holy eyes. 

In my quick heart died thoughtfully away 

Abash' d to mute confession of a sway. 

Awful, though meek : and now, that from the strings 
Of my soul's lyre, the tempest's mighty wings 

Have struck forth tones which then awaken' d lay ; 

Now, that around the deep life of my mind, 

Affections, deathless as itself, have twined. 
Oft does the pale bright vision still float by ; 

But more divinely sweet, and speaking now 

Of One whose pity, throned on that sad brow, 

Sounded all depths of love, grief, death, humanity ! 



(312) 



VL— THE CHILDREN WHOM JESUS BLEST. 

Happy were they, the mothers, in whose sight 
Ye grew, fair children 1 hallow' d from that hour 
By your Lord's blessing ! surely thence a shower 

Of heavenly beauty, a transmitted light 

Hung on your brows and eyelids, meekly bright, 
Through all the after years, which saw ye move 

Lowly, yet still majestic, in the might. 

The conscious glory of the Saviour's love ! 

And honor'd be all childhood, for the sake 
Of that high love ! Let reverential care 

Watch to behold the immortal spirit wake, 
And shield its first bloom from unholy air ; 

Owning, in each young suppliant glance, the sign 

Of claims upon a heritage divine. 



Vn.— MOUNTAIN SANCTUARIES. 

A CHILD 'midst ancient mountains I have stood. 

Where the wild falcons make their lordly nest 
On high. The spirit of the solitude 

Fell solemnly upon my infant breast, 
Though then I pray'd not ; but deep thoughts have press' d 

Into my being since it breathed that air 
Nor could I now one moment live the guest 

Of such dread scenes, without the springs of prayer 
O'erflowing all my soul. No ministers rise 
Like them in pure communion with the skies, 



(313) 

Vast, silent, open unto night and day ; 

So might the o'erburden'd Son of man have felt, 
When turning where inviolate stillness dwelt, 

He sought high mountains, there apart to pray. 



VIII.— THE LILIES OF THE FIELD. 

Flow^ers ! v/hen the Saviour's calm benignant eye 
Fell on your gentle beauty — when from you 
That heavenly lesson from all hearts he drew, 

Eternal, universal, as the sky — 

Then, in the bosom of your purity, 
A voice He set, as in a temple shrine 

That life's quick travellers ne'er might pass you by, 
Unwarn'd of that sweet oracle divine. 

And though too ofl its low, celestial sound, 

By the harsh notes of work-day Care is drown'd. 

And the loud steps of vain unlistening Haste, 
Yet, the great ocean hath no tone of power 
Mightier to reach the soul, in thought's hush'd hour, 

Than yours, ye Lilies ! chosen thus and graced ! 



IX— THE BIRDS OF THE AIR. 

Ye too, the free and fearless Birds of the air, 
Were charged that hour on missionary wing, 

The same bright lesson o'er the seas to bear. 

Heaven-guided wanderers with the winds of spring ! 

Sing on, before the storm and after, sing ! 
A call us to your echoing woods away 

27 



(314) 

From worldly cares ; and bid our spirits bring 
Faith to imbibe deep wisdom from your lay. 
So may those blessed vernal strains renew 
Childhood, a childhood yet more pure and true 

E'en than the first, within th' awaken' d mind : 
While sweetly, joyously, they tell of life. 
That knows no doubts, no questionings, no strife. 
But hangs upon its God, unconsciously resign' d. 



X.— THE RAISING OF THE WIDOW'S SON. 

He that was dead rose up and spolce — He spoke! 

Was it of that majestic world unknown ! 
Those words which first the bier's dread silence broke. 
Came they with revelation in each tone ? 
Were the far cities of the nations gone, 

The solemn halls of consciousness or sleep, 
For man uncurtain'd by that spirit lone, 

Back from their portal summon'd o'er the deep ? 
Be hush'd, my soul ! the veil of darkness lay 
Still drawn : — thy Lord call'd back the voice departed, 
To spread his truth, to comfort his weak-hearted, 
Not to reveal the mysteries of its way. 
Oh ! take that lesson home in silent faith, 
Put on submissive strength to meet, not question death ! 



XL— THE OLIVE TREE. 

The Palm — the Vine — the Cedar — each hath power 
To bid fair Oriental shapes glance by. 
And each quick glistening of the Laurel bower 
Wails Grecian images o'er fancy's eye. 



(315) 

But thou, pale Olive ! — in thy branches lie 
Far deeper spells than prophet-grove of old 
Might e'er enshrine : — I could not hear thee sigh 
To the wind's faintest whisper, nor behold 
One shiver of thy leaves' dim silvery green, 
Without high thoughts and solemn, of that scene 
"When, in the garden, the Redeemer pray'd — 
When pale stars look'd upon his fainting head, 
And angels, ministering in silent dread. 
Trembled, perchance, within thy trembling shade. 



XIL— THE DARKNESS OF THE CRUCIFIXION. 

On Judah's hills a weight of darkness hung, 

Felt shudderingly at noon: — the land had driven 

A Guest divine back to the gates of Heaven, 

A life, whence all pure founts of healing sprung. 

All grace, all truth: — and, when to anguish wrung. 

From the sharp cross th' enlightening spirit fled, 

O'er the forsaken earth a pall of dread 

By the great shadow of that death was flung. 

O Saviour ! O Atoner ! thou that fain 

Wouldst make thy temple in each human breast, 

Leave not such darkness in my soul to reign, 

Ne'er may thy presence from its depths depart, 

Chas'd thence by guilt! — Oh! turn not thou away, 

The bright and morning star, my guide to perfect day ! 



(316) 

XIIL— PLACES OF WORSHIP. 
Spirit ! whose life-sustaining presence fills 
Air, ocean, central depths, by man untried, 
Thou for thy worshippers hast sanctified 
All place, all time ! The silence of the hills 
Breathes veneration : — founts and choral rills 
Of thee are murmuring : ~ to its inmost glade 
The living forest with thy whisper thrills, 
And there is holiness on every shade. 
Yet must the thoughtful soul of man invest 
With dearer consecration those pure fanes. 
Which, sever'd from all sound of earth's unrest, 
Hear naught but suppliant or adoring strains 
Rise heavenward. — Ne'er may rock or cave possess 
Their claim on human hearts to solemn tenderness. 

XIV.— OLD CHURCH IN AN ENGLISH PARK. 
Crowning a flowery slope, it stood alone 
In gracious sanctity. A bright rill wound, 
Caressingly, about the holy ground ; 
And warbled, with a never-dying tone. 
Amidst the tombs. A hue of ages gone 
Seem'd, from that ivied porch, that solemn gleam 
Of tower and cross, pale quivering on the stream, 
O'er all th' ancestral woodlands to be thrown. 
And something yet more deep. The air was fraught 
With noble memories, whispering many a thought 
Of England's fathers ; lofly serene. 
They that had toil'd, watch'd, struggled, to secure, 
Within such fabrics, worship free and pure, 
Reign' d there, the o'ershadowing spirits of the scene. 



(317) 



XV.-A CHURCfl IN NORTH WALES. 

Blessings be round it still ! that gleaming fane, 

Low in its mountain glen ! old mossy trees 

Mellow the sunshine through the untinted pane, 

And ofl, borne in upon some fitful breeze. 

The deep sound of the ever-pealing seas, 

Filling the hollows with its anthem-tone. 

There meets the voice of psalms! — yet not alone 

For memories lulling to the heart as these, 

[ bless thee, 'midst thy rocks, grey house of prayer ! 

But for their sakes who unto thee repair 

From the hill-cabins and the ocean shore. 

Oh ! may the fisher and the mountaineer. 

Words to sustain earth's toiling children hear, 

Within thy lowly walls for evermore ! 



XVL-LOUISE SCHEPLER. 

A FEARLESS joumcyer o'er the mountain snow 
Wert thou, Louise ! the sun^s decaying light. 
Oft, with its latest melancholy glow, 
Redden'd thy steep wild way : the starry night 
Ofl met thee, crossing some lone eagle's height. 
Piercing some dark ravine ; and many a dell 
Knew, through its ancient rock-recesses well. 
Thy gentle presence, which hath made them bright 
Ofl in mid-storms ; oh ! not with beauty's eye. 
Nor the proud glance of genius keenly burning ; 
27* 



(318) 

No ! pilgrim of unwearying charity ! 
Thy spell was love — the mountain deserts turning 
To blessed realms, where stream and rock rejoice, 
When the glad human soul lifts a thanksgiving voice ! 



XVIL— TO THE SAME. 

For thou, a holy shepherdess and kind, 

Through the pine forests, by the upland rills, 

Didst roam to seek the children of the hills, 

A wild neglected flock ! to seek, and find. 

And meekly win ! there feeding each young mind 

With balms of heavenly eloquence : not thiiie, 

Daughter of Christ ! but his, whose love divine. 

Its own clear spirit in thy breast had shrined, 

A burning light ! Oh ! beautiful, in truth, 

Upon the mountains are the feet of those 

Who bear his tidings ! From thy morn of youth, 

For this were all thy journeyings, and the close 

Of that long path, Heaven's own bright Sabbath-rest, 

Must wait thee, wanderer ! on thy Saviour's breast. 



(319) 



RECORDS OF THE SPRING OF 1834.* 



I.— A VERNAL THOUGHT. 

O FESTAL Spring ! 'midst thy victorious glow, 

Far-spreading o'er the kindled woods and plains, 

And streams, that bound to meet thee from their chains, 

Well might there lurk the shadow of a woe 

For human hearts, and in the exulting flow 

Of thy rich sons a melancholy tone, 

Were we of mould all earthly; we alone, 

Sever'd from thy great spell, and doom'd to go 

Farther, still farther, from our sunny time. 

Never to feel the breathings of our prime, 

Never to flower again! — But we, O Spring! 

Cheer'd by deep spirit-whispers not of earth, 

Press to the regions of thy heavenly birth. 

As here thy flowers and birds press on to bloom and sing. 



II.— TO THE SKY, 

Far from the rustlings of the poplar bough. 
Which o'er my opening life wild music made. 
Far from the green hills with their heathery glow 
And flashing streams whereby my childhood play'd ; 

inttZ^f ^.^^'JI!^^^' '^'"?.'^ 'V^^ ^^^^^s of April, May, and June, were 
intended, together with the Records of th^ Autumn of 1834, to form a 
contmuation of the series, entitled " Sonnets, Devotional and Memorial " 



( 320 ) 

In the dim city, 'midst the sounding flow 

Of restless life, to thee in love I turn, 

O thou rich sky ! and from thy splendors learn 

How song-birds come and part, flowers wane and blow. 

With thee all shapes of glory find their home. 

And thou hast taught ma well, majestic dome? 

By stars, by sunsets, by soft clouds which rove 

Thy blue expanse, or sleep in silvery rest, 

That Nature's God hath left no spot unbless'd 

With founts of beauty for the eye of love. 



III.— ON RECORDS OF IMMATURE GENIUS. 

Oh ! judge in thoughtful tenderness of those. 
Who, richly dower'd for life, are called to die. 
Ere the souls flame, through storms, hath won repose 
In truth's divinest ether, still and high ! 
Let their mind's riches claim a trustful sigh ! 
Deem them but sad sweet fragments of a strain, 
First notes of some yet struggling harmony, 
By the strong rush, the crowding joy and pain 
Of many inspirations met, and held 

From its true sphere: — Oh! soon it might have swell'd 
Majestically forth ! — Nor doubt, that He, 
Whose touch mysterious may on earth dissolve 
Those links of music, elsewhere will evolve 
Their grand consummate hymn, from passion-gusts made 
free ! 



(321) 

IV.-ON WATCHING THE FLIGHT OF A SKY LARK. 

Upward and upward still! — in pearly light 

The clouds are steep'd ; the vernal spirit sighs 

With bliss in every wind, and crystal skies 

Woo thee, O bird ! to thy celestial height ; 

Bird piercing Heaven with music ! thy free flight 

Hath meaning for all bosoms ; most of all 

For those wherein the rapture and the might 

Of poesy lie deep, and strive, and burn. 

For their high place : O heirs of genius ! learn 

From the sky's bird your way ! — No joy may fill 

Your hearts, no gift of holy strength be won 

To bless your songs, ye children of the sun ! 

Save by the unswerving flight — upward and upward still! 

V.-A THOUGHT OF THE SEA. 

My earliest memories to thy shores are bound, 

Thy solemn shores, thou ever-chanting main ! 

The first rich sunsets, kindling thought profound 

In my lone being, made thy restless plain 

As the vast shining floor of some dread fane, 

All paved with glass and fire. Yet, O blue deep ! 

Thou that no trace of human hearts dost keep. 

Never to thee did love with silvery chain 

Draw my soul's dream, which through all nature sought 

What waves deny; — some bower of steadfast bliss, 

A Jiome to twine with fancy, feeling, thought. 

As with sweet flowers: — But chasten'd hope for this 



( 322 ) 

Now turns from earth's green valleys, as from thee, 
To that sole changeless world, where " there is no more 
sea." 



VL— DISTANT SOUND OF THE SEA AT EVENING. 

Yet, rolling far up some green mountain dale, 

Ofl let me hear, as ofltimes I have heard, 

Thy swell, thou deep ! when evening calls the bird 

And bee to rest ; when summer tints grow pale. 

Seen through the gathering of a dewy veil. 

And peasant steps are hastening to repose. 

And gleaming flocks lie down, and flower-cups close 

To the last whisper of the falling gale. 

Then, 'midst the dying of all other sound. 

When the soul hears thy distant voice profound. 

Lone-worshipping, and knows that through the night 

'T will worship still, then most its anthem-tone 

Speaks to our being of the Eternal One, 

Who girds tired nature with unslumbering might. 



VII.—THE RIVER CLWYD IN NORTH WALES. 

O Cambrian river, with slow music gliding 
By pastoral hills, old woods, and ruin'd towers ; 
Now 'midst thy reeds and golden willows hiding. 
Now gleaming forth by some rich bank of flowers ; 
Long flow'd the current of my life's clear hours 
Onward with thine, whose voice yet haunts my dream, 
Though time and change, and other mightier powers. 
Far from thy side have borne me. Thou, smooth stream ! 



(323) 

Art winding still thy sunny meads along, 
Murm'ring to cottage and grey hall thy song, 
Low, sweet, unchanged. My being's tide hath pass'd 
Through rocks and storms ; yet will I not complain. 
If thus wrought free and pure from earthly stain. 
Brightly its waves may reach their parent-deep at last. 



VIII.—ORCHARD BLOSSOMS. 

Doth thy heart stir within thee at the sight 

Of orchard blooms upon the mossy bough ? 

Doth their sweet household smile waft back the glow 

Of childhood's morn? — the wonderino- fresh delio-ht 

In earth's new coloring, then all strangely bright, 

A joy of fairyland? — Doth some old nook, 

Haunted by visions of thy first-loved book. 

Rise on thy soul, with faint-streak' d blossoms white, 

Shower'd o'er the turf, and the lone primrose knot. 

And robin's nest, still faithful to the spot, 

And the bee's dreamy chime ? — O gentle friend ! 

The world's cold breath, not Time's, this life bereaves 

Of vernal gifts — Time hallows what he leaves. 

And will for us dear spring-memories to the end. 



IX.— TO A DISTANT SCENE. 

Still are the cowslips from thy bosom springing, 
O far-off grassy dell ? — and dost thou see. 
When southern winds first wake the vernal sino-ino-. 
The star-gleam of the wood anemone ? 



( ^24) 

Doth the shy ring-dove haunt thee yet — the bee 
Hang on thy flowers as when I breathed farewell 
To their wild blooms ? and round my beechen tree 
Still, in green softness, doth the moss bank swell ? 

— Oh ! strange illusion by the fond heart wrought. 
Whose own warm life suffuses nature's face ! 

— My being's tide of many-color'd thought 

Hath pass'd from thee, and now^, rich, leafy place ! 
I paint thee oft, scarce consciously, a scene, 
Silent, forsaken, dim, shadow'd by what hath been. 



X— A REMEMBRANCE OF GRASMERE. 

O VALE and lake, within your mountain-urn 

Smiling so tranquilly, and set so deep ! 

Oft doth your dreamy loveliness return, 

Coloring the tender shadows of my sleep 

With light Elysian ; for the hues that steep 

Your shores in melting lustre, seem to float 

On golden clouds from spirit-lands remote, 

Isles of the blest ; and in our memory keep 

Their place with holiest harmonies : fair scene, 

Most loved by evening and her dewy star ! 

Oh ! ne'er may man, with touch unhallow'd, jar 

The perfect music of thy charm serene ! 

Still, still unchanged, may one sweet region wear 

Smiles that subdue the soul to love, and tears, and prayer. 



( 325) 



XL— THOUGHTS CONNECTED WITH TREES. 

Trees, gracious trees ! how rich a gift ye are, 

Crown of the earth ! to human hearts and eyes ! 

How doth the thought of home, in lands afar, 

Link'd with your forms and kindly whisperings rise ! 

How the whole picture of a childhood lies 

Ofl 'midst your boughs forgotten, buried deep ! 

Till gazing through them up the summer skies 

As hush'd we stand, a breeze perchance may creep 

And old sweet leaf-sounds reach the inner world 

Where memory coils — and lo ! at once unfurl'd 

The past a glowing scroll, before our sight, 

Spreads clear ! while gushing from their long-seal'd urn 

Young thoughts, pure dreams, undoubting prayers return. 

And a lost mother's eye gives back its holy light. 



Xn.—THE SAME. 

And ye are strong to shelter! — all meek things, 
All that need home and covert, love your shade ! 
Birds of shy song, and low-voiced quiet springs. 
And nun-like violets, by the wind betray'd. 
Childhood beneath your fresh green tents hath play'd. 
With his first primrose wealth : there love hath sought 
A veiling gloom for his unutter'd thought; 
And silent grief, of day's keen glare afraid, 
A refuge for her tears ; and ofltimes there 
Hath lone devotion found a place of prayer, 
-_ 28 



( 326 ) 

A native temple, solemn, hush'd, and dim ; 
For wheresoe'er your murm'ring tremors thrill 
The woody twilight, there man's heart hath still 
Confess'd a spirit's breath, and heard a ceaseless hymn. 



XIIL— ON READING PAUL AND VIRGINIA IN CHILDHOOD. 

GENTLE story of the Indian isle ! 

1 loved thee in my lonely childhood well ; 

On the sea shore, when day's last purple smile 

Slept on the waters, and their hollow swell 

And dying cadence let a deeper spell 

Unto thine ocean-pictures. 'Midst thy palms 

And strange bright birds, my fancy joy'd to dwell, j 

And watch the southern cross through midnight calms, 

And track the spicy woods. Yet more I bless' d 

Thy vision of sweet love ; kind, trustful, true, 

Lighting the citron groves — a heavenly guest. 

With such pure smiles as Paradise once knew. 

Even then my young heart wept o'er the world's power. 

To reach and blight that holiest Eden flower. 



XIV.— A THOUGHT AT SUNSET. 

Still that last look is solemn ! though thy rays, 
O sun ! to-morrow will give back, we know, 
The joy to nature's heart. Yet through the glow 
Of clouds that mantle thy decline, our gaze 
Tracks thee with love half fearful ; and in days 
When earth too much adorned thee, what a swell 



(327) 

Of mournful passion, deepening mighty lays, 
Told how the dying bade thy light farewell, 
O sun of Greece ! O glorious festal sun ! 
Lost, lost! — for them thy golden hours were done, 
And darkness lay before them ! Happier far 
Are we, not thus to thy bright wheels enchain'd. 
Not thus for thy last parting unsustain'd, 
Heirs for a purer day, with its unsetting star. 

XV.-IMAGES OF PATRIARCHAL LIFE. 

Cal3i scenes of patriarch life! — How long a power 

Your unworn pastoral images retain 

O'er the true heart, which in its childhood's hour 

Drank their pure freshness deep ! The camels' train 

Winding in patience o'er the desert plain — 

The tent, the palm tree, the reposing flock. 

The gleaming fount, the shadow of the rock, 

Oh ! by how subtle, yet how strong a chain. 

And in the influence of its touch how bless'd, 

Are these things link'd, in many a thoughtful breast. 

To household memories, for all change endear'd ! 

The matin bird, the ripple of a stream 

Beside our native porch — the hearth-light's gleam, 

The voices, earliest by the soul rever'd ! 

XVL— ATTRACTION OF THE EAST. 
What secret current of man's nature turns 
Unto the golden east with ceaseless flow? 
Still, where the sunbeam at its fountain burns, 
The pilgrim spirit would adore and glow ; 



( 328 ) 

Rapt in high thoughts, though weary, faint and slow, 
Still doth the traveller through the deserts wind, 
Led by those old Chaldean stars, which know 
Where pass'd the shepherd fathers of mankind. 
Is it some quenchless instinct, which from far 
Still points to where our alienated home 
Lay in bright peace? O thou true eastern star, 
Saviour ! atoning Lord ! w^here'er we roam, 
Draw still our hearts to thee ; else, else how vain 
Their hope, the fair lost birthright to regain. 



XVIL— TO AN AGED FRIEND. 

Not long thy voice amongst us may be heard. 

Servant of God ! — thy day is almost done ; 

The charm now lingering in thy look and word 

Is that which hangs about thy setting sun, 

That which the spirit of decay hath won 

Still from revering love. Yet doth the sense 

Of life immortal — progress but begun — 

Pervade thy mien with such clear eloquence, 

That hope, not sadness, breathes from thy decline ; 

And the loved flowers which round thee smile farewell. 

Of more than vernal glory seem to tell. 

By thy pure spirit touch'd with light divine ; 

While we, to whom its parting gleams are given. 

Forget the grave in trustful thoughts of heaven. 



( 329) 



XVIIL— FOLIAGE. 

Come forth, and let us through our hearts receive 

The joy of verdure ! — see, the honied lime 

Showers cool green light o'er banks where wild flowers 

weave 
Thick tapestry ; and woodbine tendrils climb 
Up the brown oak from buds of moss and thyme. 
The rich deep masses of the sycamore 
Hang heavy with the fulness of their prime, 
And the white poplar, from its foliage hoar. 
Scatters forth gleams like moonlight, with each gale 
That sweeps the boughs: — the chesnut flowers a^'re past, 
The crowning glories of the hawthorn fail. 
But arches of sweet eglantine are cast 
From every hedge: — Oh! never may we lose. 
Dear friend ! our fresh delight in simplest nature's hues f 



XIX.— A PRAYER. 

Father in Heaven ! from whom the simplest flower 

On the high Alps or fiery desert thrown. 

Draws not sweet odor or young life alone. 

But the deep virtue of an inborn power 

To cheer the wanderer in his fainting hour, 

With thoughts of Thee ; to strengthen, to infuse 

Faith, love, and courage, by the tender hues 

28* 



( 330 ) 

That speak thy presence ; oh ! with such a dower 

Grace thou my song! — the precious gift bestow 

From thy pure Spirit's treasury divine, 

To wake one tear of purifying flow, 

To soften one wa*ung heart for thee and thine ; 

So shall the life breathed through the lowly strain. 

Be as the meek wild flower's — if transient, yet not vain. 



XX.— PRAYER CONTINUED. 

Far are the wings of intellect astray. 

That strive not, Father ! to thy heavenly seat , 

They rove, but mount not ; and the tempests beat 

Still on their plumes : ~ O source of mental day ! 

Chase from before my spirit's track the array 

Of mists and shadows, raised by earthly care 

In troubled hosts that cross the purer air. 

And veil the opening of the starry way. 

Which brightens on to thee ! — Oh ! guide thou right 

My thought's weak pinion, clear mine inward sight. 

The eternal springs of beauty to discern. 

Welling beside thy throne ; unseal mine ear. 

Nature's true oracles in joy to hear : 

Keep my soul wakeful still to listen and to learn. 



(331) 



XXI.-MEMORIAL OF A CONVERSATION. 

Yes ! all things tell us of a birthright lost, 
A brightness from our nature pass'd away ! 
Wanderers we seem, that from an alien coast. 
Would turn to where their Father's mansion lay. 
And but by some lone flower, that 'midst decay 
Smiles mournfully, or by some sculptured stone, 
Revealing dimly, with grey moss o'ergrown. 
The faint-worn impress of its glory's day, 
Can trace their once-free heritage ; though dreams 
Fraught with its picture, oft in startling gleams 
Flash o'er their souls, — But One, oh! One alone, 
For us the ruin'd fabric may rebuild, 
And bid the wilderness again be fill'd. 
With Eden-flowers — One, mighty to atone! 



(332) 



RECORDS OF THE AUTUMN OF 1834. 



I.— THE RETURN TO POETRY. 

Once more the eternal melodies from far, 

Woo me like songs of home : once more discerning 

Through fitful clouds the pure majestic star, 

Above the poet's world serenely burning. 

Thither my soul, fresh-wing'd by love, is turning, 

As o'er the waves the wood bird seeks her nest, 

For those green heights of dewy stillness yearning, 

Whence glorious minds o'er look this earth's unrest. 

— Now be the spirit of Heaven's truth my guide 

Through the bright land ! — that no brief gladness, found 

In passing bloom, rich odor, or sweet sound. 

May lure my footsteps from their aim aside : 

Their true high quest — -to seek, if ne'er to gain. 

The inmost, purest shrine of that august domain. 



II.— TO SILVIO PELLICO, ON READING HIS " PRIGIONE." 

There are who climb the mountain's heathery side," 

Or, in life's vernal strength triumphant, urge 

The bark's fleet rushing through the crested surge. 

Or spur the courser's fiery race of pride 

Over the green savannas, gleaming wide 

By some vast lake ; yet thus, on foaming sea. 



( 333 ) 

Or chainless wild, reign far less nobly free, 

Than thou, in that lone dungeon, glorified 

By thy brave suifering. — Thou from its dark cell 

Fierce thought and baleful passion didst exclude, 

Filling the dedicated solitude 

With God ; and where His Spirit deigns to dwell, 

Though the worn frame in fetters withering lie. 

There throned in peace divine is liberty ! 



III.-TO THE SAME, RELEASED. 

How flows thy being now? — like some glad hymn. 

One strain of solemn rapture ? — doth thine eye 

Wander through tears of voiceless feeling dim, 

O'er the crown'd Alps, that, 'midst the upper sky 

Sleep in the sunlight of thine Italy? 

Or is thy gaze of reverent love profound, 

Unto those dear parental faces bound. 

Which, with their silvery hair, so ofl glanced by, 

Haunting thy prison-dreams ? — Where'er thou art. 

Blessing be shed upon thine inmost heart, 

Joy, from kind looks, blue skies, and flowery sod. 

For that pure voice of thoughtful wisdom sent 

Forth from thy cell, in sweetness eloquent. 

Of love to man, and quenchless trust in God ! 



( 334 ) 



IV.— ON A SCENE IN THE DARGLE. 

'TwAs a bright moment of my life when first, 

O thou pure stream through rocky portals flowing ! 

That temple-chamber of thy glory burst 

On my glad sight ! — thy pebbly couch lay glowing 

With deep mosaic hues ; and, richly throwing 

O'er thy cliff-walls a tinge of autumn's vest. 

High bloom'd the heath flowers, and the wild wood's crest 

Was touch'd with gold. — Flow ever thus, bestowing 

Gifts of delight, sweet stream ! on all who move 

Gently along thy shores ; and oh ! if love, 

— True love, in secret nursed, with sorrow fraught — 

Should sometimes bear his treasured griefs to thee, 

Then full of kindness let thy music be^ 

Singing repose to every troubled thought ! 



v.— ON READING COLERIDGE'S EPITAPH.* 

Spirit ! so ofl in radiant freedom soaring. 
High through seraphic mysteries unconfined. 
And ofl, a diver through the deep of mind. 
Its caverns, far below its waves, exploring ; 



" Stop, Christian passer-by ! stop, child of God ! 
And read with gentle breast ; — Beneath this sod 
A Poet lies, or that which once seem'd he ; 
Oh ! lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C. ! 
That He, who once in vain, with toil of breath, 
Found death in life, may here find life in death ! 
Mercy, for praise ; to be forgiven, for Fame, 
He ask'd and hoped through Christ. Do thou the sarne !" 
[Coleridge^ s Epitaph : by Himself. 



( 335) 

And ofl such strains of breezy music pouring, 

As, with the floating sweetness of their sio-hs, 

Could still all fevers of the heart, restoring 

Awhile that freshness left in Paradise; 

Say, of those glorious wanderings what the goal? 

What the rich fruitage to man's kindred soul 

From wealth of thine bequeathed 1 O strong and high. 

And sceptred intellect ! thy goal confess'd 

Was the Redeemer's Cross — thy last bequest 

One lesson breathing thence profound humility ! 



VI.-ON THE DATURA ARBOREA. 

Majestic plant ! such fairy dreams as lie 

Nursed, where the bee sucks in the cowslip's bell. 

Are not thy train: — those flowers of vase-like swell. 

Clear, large, with dewy moonlight fill'd from high. 

And in their monumental purity 

Serenely drooping, round thee seem to draw 

Visions link'd strangely with that silent awe 

Which broods o'er Sculpture's works. — A meet ally 

For those heroic forms, the simply grapd 

Art thou : and worthy, carved by plastic hand, 

Above some kingly poet's tomb to shine 

In spotless marble; honoring one, whose train 

Soar'd upon wings of thought that knew no stain 

Free through the starry heavens of truth divine. 



n 



( 336) 



VIL— DESIGN AND PERFORMANCE. 

They float before my soul, the fair designs 
Which I would body forth to Life and Power, 
Like clouds, that with their wavering hues and lines 
Portray majestic buildings : — Dome and tower, 
Bright spire, that through the rainbow and the shower 
Points to th' unchanging stars ; and high arcade 
Far-sweeping to some glorious altar, made 
For holiest rites : — meanwhile the waning hour 
Melts from me, and by fervent dreams overwrought, 
I sink : — O friend ! O link'd with each high thought 
Aid me, of those rich visions to detain 
All I may grasp; until thou see'st fulfill'd. 
While time and strength allow, my hope to build 
For lowly hearts devout, but one enduring fane ! 



VIIL— HOPE OF FUTURE COMMUNION WITH NATURE. 

If e'er again my spirit be allow'd 
Converse with nature in her chambers deep, 
Where lone, and mantled with the rolling cloud. 
She broods o'er new-born waters, as they leap 
In sword-like flashes down the heathery steep 
From caves of mystery ; — if I roam once more 
Where dark pines quiver to the torrent's roar. 
And voiceful oaks respond ! — shall I not reap 
A more ennobling joy, a loftier power. 
Than e'er w^as shed on life's more vernal hour, 



( 337 ) 



From such communion? — yes! I then shall know. 
That not in vain have sorrow, love, and thought. 
Their long still work of preparation wrought, 
For that more perfect sense of God reveal'd below. 



IX.— DREAMS OF THE DEAD. 

Oft in still night-dreams a departed face 
Bends o'er me with sweet earnestness of eye 
Wearing no more of earthly pains a trace, 
But all the tender pity that may lie 
On the clear brow of Immortality, 
Calm, yet profound. Soft rays illume that mien, 
Th' unshadow'd moonlight of some far-off sky 
Around it floats transparently serene 
As a pure veil of waters. O rich sleep ! 
Thou hast strong spirits in thy regions deep, 
Which glorify with reconciling breath, 
Effacing, brightening, giving forth to shine 
Beauty's high truth, and how much more divine 
Thy power when link'd in this, with thy stern brother - 
Death ! 



X.--POETRY OF THE PSALMS. 

Nobly thy song, O minstrel ! rush'd to meet 
Th' Eternal on the pathway of the blast, 
With darkness round him, as a mantle, cast, 
A cherubim to waft his flying seat ; 
Amidst the hills that smoked beneath his feet, 

29 



( 338 ) 

With trumpet-voice thy spirit call'd aloud, 
And bade the trembling rocks his name repeat. 
And the bent cedars, and the bursting cloud. 
But far more gloriously to earth made known 
By that high strain than by the thunder's tone, 
The flashing torrents, or the ocean's roll, 
Jehovah spake, through the inbreathing fire. 
Nature's vast realms forever to inspire 
With the deep worship of a living soul. 



(339) 



THOUGHTS DURING SICKNESS. 



I.— INTELLECTUAL POWERS. 

O Thought ! O Memory ! gems forever heaping 

High in the illumined chambers of the mind, 

And thou, divine Imagination ! keeping 

Thy lamp's lone star 'mid shadowy hosts enshrined ; 

How in one moment rent and disentwined. 

At Fever's fiery touch, apart they fall, 

Your glorious combinations ! — broken all. 

As the sand-pillars by the desert's wind 

Scatter'd to whirling dust ! — Oh, soon uncrown'd ! 

Well may your parting swift, your strange return, 

Subdue the soul to lowliness profound. 

Guiding its chasten'd vision to discern 

How by meek Faith Heaven's portals must be pass'd 

Ere it can hold your gifts inalienably fast. 



XL— SICKNESS LIKE NIGHT. 

Thou art like Night, O Sickness ! deeply stilling 
Within my heart the world's disturbing sound, 
x\nd the dim quiet of my chamber filling 
With low sweet voices by Life's tumult drown'd, 
Thou art like awful Night! — thou gather' st round 



( 340 ) 

The things that are unseen — though close they lie, - 
And with a truth, clear, startling, and profound, 
Givest their dread presence to our mental eye. 
— Thou art like starry, spiritual Night ! 
High and immortal thoughts attend thy way, 
And revelations, which the common light 
Brings not, though wakening with its rosy ray 
All outward life : — Be welcome then thy rod, 
Before whose touch my soul unfolds itself to God. 



III.— ON RETZSCH'S DESIGN OF THE ANGEL OF DEATH. 

Well might thine awful image thus arise 

With that high calm upon thy regal brow. 

And the deep, solemn sweetness in those eyes, 

Unto the glorious Artist ! — Who but thou 

The fleeting forms of beauty can endow 

For Him with permanency ? — who make those gleams 

Of brighter life, that color his lone dreams. 

Immortal things ? — Let others trembling bow, 

Angel of Death ! before thee. — Not to those, 

Whose spirits with Eternal Truth repose, 

Art thou a fearful shape ! — and oh ! for me, 

How full of welcome would thine aspect shine, 

Did not the cords of strong aifection twine 

So fast around my soul, it cannot spring to thee ! 



IV.— REMEMBRANCE OF NATURE. 

O, NATURE ! thou didst rear me for thine own, 
With thy free singing birds and mountain brooks ; 
Feeding my thoughts in primrose-haunted nooks. 



(341) 

With fairy fantasies and wood-dreams lone ; 
And thou didst teach me every wandering tone 
Drawn from thy many-whispering trees and waves, 
And guide my steps to founts and sparry caves, 
And where bright mosses wove thee a rich throne 
'Midst the green hills: -and now that far estranged 
From all sweet sounds and odors of thy breath, 
Fading I lie, within my heart unchanged, 
So glows the love of thee, that not for Death 
Seems that pure passion's fervor — but ordain'd 
To meet on brighter shores thy Majesty unstain'd. 



V.-FLIGHT OF THE SPIRIT. 

Whither, oh! whither wilt thou wing thy way? 
What solemn region first upon thy sight 
Shall break, unveil'd for terror or delight ? 
What hosts, magnificent in dread array? 
My spirit ! when thy prison-house of clay, 
After long strife is rent? -fond, fruitless guest- 
The unfledged bird, within his narrow nest 
Sees but a few green branches o'er him play 
And through their parting leaves, by fits reve'al'd, 
A glimpse of summer sky: -nor knows the field 
Wherein his dormant powers must yet be tried 
-Thou art that bird! -of what beyond thee lies 
ta.r m the untrack'd, immeasurable skies. 
Knowing but this -that thou shalt find thy Guide' 



29* 



( 342 ) 

VI.— FLOWERS. 

Welco3IS, O pure and lovely forms, again 

Unto the shadowy stillness of my room ! 

For not alone ye bring a joyous train 

Of summer-thoughts attendant on your bloom — 

Visions of freshness, of rich bowery gloom, 

Of the low murmurs filling mossy dells, 

Of stars that look down on your folded bells 

Through dewy leaves, of many a wild perfume 

Greeting the wandei^er of the hill and grove 

Like sudden music ; more than this ye bring — 

Far more ; ye whisper of the all -fostering love 

Vv^hich thus hath clothed you, and whose dove-like wing 

Broods o'er the sufferer drawing fever'd breath, 

Vv'hether the couch be that of life or death. 



VII.— RECOVERY.* 

Back then, once more to breast the waves of life, 
To battle on against the unceasing spray, 
To sink o'erwearied in the stormy strife. 
And rise to strife again ; yet on my way, 
Oh ! linger still, thou light of better day. 
Born in the hours of loneliness, and you, 
Ye child-like thoughts, the holy and the true. 
Ye that came bearing, while subdued I lay. 
The faith, the insight of life's vernal morn 
Back on my soul, a clear bright sense, new-born, 



* Written under the false impression occasioned by a temporary im- 
provement in strength. 



(343) 

Now leave me not ! but as, profoundly pure, 
A blue stream rushes through a darker lake 
Unchang'd, e'en thus with me your journey take, 
Wafting sweet airs of heaven through this low' world 
obscure. 



SABBATH SONNET. 

COMPOSED BY MRS. HEMANS A FEW DAYS BEFORE HER DEATH 
AND DEDICATED TO HER BROTHER. 

How many blessed groups this hour are bending, 

Through England's primrose meadow-paths, their way 

Towards spire and tower, 'midst shadowy ehns ascending. 

Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallow'd day ! 

The halls from old heroic ages grey 

Pour their fair children forth ; and hamlets low. 

With whose thick orchard-blooms the sofl winds play 

Sends out their inmates in a happy flow. 

Like a freed vernal stream. I may not tread 

With them those pathways, — to the feverish bed 

Of sickness bound ; — yet, oh, my God ! I bless 

Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath fiU'd 

My chasten'd heart, and all its throbbings still'd 

To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness. 



(344) 



A POET'S DYING HYMN. 

Be mute who will, who can, 
Yet I will praise thee with impassion' d voice ! 
Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine 
In such a temple as we now behold, 
Rear'd for thy presence ; therefore am I bound 
To worship here, and every where. 

JVordsworth. 

The blue, deep, glorious heavens ! — I lift mine eye, 
And bless thee, O my God ! that I have met 

And own'd thine image in the majesty 

Of their calm temple still ! — that never yet 

There hath thy face been shrouded from my sight 

By noontide blaze, or sweeping storm of night : 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

That now still clearer, from their pure expanse, 
I see the mercy of thine aspect shine. 

Touching death's features with a lovely glance 
Of light serenely, solemnly divine. 

And lending to each holy star a ray 

As of kind eyes, that woo my soul away : 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

That I have heard thy voice, nor been afraid, 
In the earth's garden — 'midst the mountains old. 

And the low thrillings of the forest shade. 
And the wild sounds of waters uncontroll'd. 

And upon many a desert plain and shore — 

No solitude — for there I felt thee more : 
I bless thee, O my God ! 



(345) 

And if thy spirit on thy child hath shed 
The gift, the vision of the imseal'd eye, 

To pierce the mist o'er life's deep meanings spread, 
To reach the hidden fountain-urns that lie 

Far in man's heart — if I have kept it free 

And pure — a consecration unto thee : 

I bless thee, O my God ! 

If my soul's utterance hath by thee been fraught 
With an awakening power — if thou hast made, 

Like the wing'd seed, the breathings of my thought. 
And by the swift winds bid them be convey'd,"" 

To lands of other lays, and there become 

Native as early melodies of home : 

I bless thee, O my God ! 

Not for the brightness of a mortal wreath, 
Not for a place 'midst kingly minstrels dead, 

But that, perchance, a faint gale of thy breath, 
A still small whisper in my song hath led 

One struggling spirit upwards to thy throne. 

Or but one hope, one prayer ; — for this alone 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

That I have loved — that I have known the love 
Which troubles in the soul the tearful springs. 

Yet, with a coloring hale from above. 
Tinges and glorifies all earthly things, 

Whate'er its anguish or its woe my be, 

Still weaving links for intercourse with thee ; 
I bless thee, O my God ! 



( 346 ) 

That by the passion of its deep distress, 

And by the overflowing of its mighty prayer, 

And by the yearning of its tenderness. 

Too full for words upon their stream to bear, 

I have been drawn still closer to thy shrine, 

Well-spring of love, the unfathom'd, the divine ; 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

That hope hath ne'er my heart or song forsaken, 

High hope, which even fi'om mystery, doubt, or dread, 

Calmly, rejoicingly, the things hath taken. 
Whereby its torchlight for the race was fed ; 

That passing storms have only fann'd the fire. 

Which pierced them still with its triumphal spire, 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

Now art thou calling me in every gale. 
Each sound and token of the dying day : 

Thou leav'st me not, though early life grows pale, 
I am not darkly sinking to decay ; 

But, hour by hour, my soul's dissolving shroud. 

Melts off to radiance, as a silvery cloud. 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

And if this earth, with all its choral streams, 
And crowning woods, and soft or solemn skies, 

And mountain sanctuaries for poet's dreams, 
Be lovely still in my departing eyes — 

'Tis not that fondly I would linger here. 

But that thy foot-prints on its dust appear : 
I bless thee, O my God ! 



( 347 ) 

And that the tender shadowing I behold, 
The tracery veining every leaf and flower, 
i Of glories cast in more consummate mould, 
No longer vassals to the changeful hour ; 
That life's last roses to my thoughts can bring 
Rich visions of imperishable spring. 

I bless thee, O my God ! 

Yes ! the young vernal voices in the skies 

Woo me not back, but, wandering past mine ear. 

Some heralds of th' eternal melodies, 
The spirit-music, imperturb'd and clear; 

The full of soul, yet passionate no more 

Let me too, joining those pure strains, adore ! 
I bless thee, O my God! 

Now aid, sustain me still! — to thee I come. 
Make thou my dwelling where thy children are ! 

And for the hope of that immortal home, 

And for thy Son, the bright and morning star. 

The sufferer and the victor-king of death, 

I bless thee with my glad song's dying breath ! 
I bless thee, O my God! 



THE END. 



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